


liars and cheats

by thebothsandneithers



Series: on purpose i care about you [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Drama, F/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Power Dynamics, Romance, Scheming, Secret Relationship, everyone else is up for debate, hello you naughty children are you ready to sin, petyr's about par for the course, sansa is more ruthless than most people would like to believe, the starks are good and mostly do not have issues, update: the starks are still good but BOY do they have issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebothsandneithers/pseuds/thebothsandneithers
Summary: Sansa could smile and be charming and pleasant, because that was what people wanted. She could swallow her wit and her cunning, because they wanted pretty, they wanted perfect. And then she realized that wasn’t enough. Then pretty, perfect Sansa let twice her age Petyr Baelish stick his tongue in her pretty, perfect mouth.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Catelyn Tully Stark & Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark
Series: on purpose i care about you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007595
Comments: 157
Kudos: 154





	1. friends like those

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes when you spiral hard enough, you get a fic out of it. we'll see where we go from here.

She didn't know how it happened. She didn't know how she _let_ it happen. One moment Sansa was _Sansa,_ polished, perfect, gilded on the expectations of her family, and the next…she didn't know who she was. She didn't think there was a name for what she'd become, not with Petyr Baelish's inky fingerprints all over her. But that was also the tricky bit—she didn't think she _wanted_ a name for it. There was power in not fitting into a box.

It had started small, at first. Petyr had made some clever comment no one but her could hear, so Sansa allowed herself a clever retort. It was a risk, yes—Robb had only just come into office after their father's passing, and she was expected to be the pleasant face of the Starks until he was more secure—but Sansa was bored and couldn't help herself. She had enjoyed the way Petyr looked at her: surprised, at first, then swallowing a smile as he sipped his champagne. She enjoyed the thought of being something _more_ than just bland, palatable Sansa.

Then it went further, a few more tiny, secret little things. He would issue a challenge, touching her elbow when he said farewell, which she would answer by pressing her hand against the small of his back when she passed. If he was going to play this patronizing game, she would respond in kind.

Of course, she knew she shouldn't. There was her image to think about, but there was more. Most people in King's Landing didn't think too hard about Petyr Baelish, he dealt with business while everyone else scrambled the political pyramid. He was just new money, people whispered, never mind how successful he was, never mind how wealthy. Her father, though, had been certain to his deathbed that Petyr Baelish was a snake in fine tailoring.

"No one succeeds in this town without trading away their soul," Ned had told her bitterly, watching Petyr's face on the news. Sansa had never forgotten how sleek he had looked, the wings of silver at his temples standing out against his dark hair and suit. "Not when you win like him."

Sansa should have been focusing on helping Robb, should have been attending benefits and aiding philanthropies and general do-gooding with her mother. And she did all that, yes, but she couldn't deny that it was rather _boring_ _._ She also couldn't deny her shiver of satisfaction when Petyr Baelish complimented her on how well she told a lie.

Things became a touch messier when they sat next to each other during the dinner portion of a charity auction.

His manners were, of course, impeccable. It was clear that image was everything to him, from his tidy fingernails to his immaculate tie pin. Sansa was actually the one that pushed things a tad too far, delicately removing the cloth napkin from his knee and using it to dab her matte red lips.

Fair was fair, after all, and if he hadn't taken her champagne flute at their last event, she wouldn't be stealing his napkin now. And, fine, she was maybe a little pissed that she was here last second instead of Robb, even though he had promised that she could have the night, even though she had been set to watch a movie and soak her feet and take care of herself for _once._ Maybe that made her a little bit reckless, a little too daring.

That didn't stop the squirm in her stomach when she saw the cool consideration in his eyes said that maybe, maybe, this was no longer the game she had agreed to play.

But she didn't break. She kept his gaze just as she kept his napkin and continued on with her meal.

"I didn't think you were a woman that liked to gamble, Sansa," he said casually, picking up his knife and fork as though all was well.

"It's not a gamble if you have nothing to lose," she told him. She was horribly aware of all the people around them, the donors and the supporters and the critics and the rivals, here to feast on human weakness as much as the salmon. If she acted a mess, it would doubtlessly be gossiped all the way back to her mother and then she would be scolded because it was always family first even though she—

"That begs the question, then," Petyr said, soft and complimentary as always. "What do you have to gain?"

Sansa couldn't help but smile at him, wide and daring. "A napkin."

That moment of confidence would have aged better if they didn't leave the fundraiser to discover Sansa's car had a flat tire. There were also complications with the backup car, her driver said dismally. It would take a half hour for her to get out of there, at least.

This was supposed to be _her_ damn night, and Robb couldn't even have arranged her a car that worked.

Sansa was just setting her shoulders and preparing to say, _don't worry, it's fine, thank you, it's not your fault,_ when Petyr put a hand on her arm.

"Let me take you home. No need to wait here, and it would be a crime to force the young Miss Stark into a grimy cab."

"Oh, no, I'm fine—"

"Sansa. It's late and I won't let you say no."

She considered refusing him anyway, then she considered how long she would actually have to wait for, how uncomfortable her shoes were becoming, and the probability of someone like the Freys deciding they needed to speak to her.

"Alright," she said, stomach flipping. "I would appreciate that very much."

Sansa wasn't prepared for the intimacy of sitting in the darkened backseat of a luxury car with Petyr Baelish. She felt his attention always brushing around her edges, even when he didn't look at her. He made pleasant small talk and remained on his side of the car, manners still perfectly intact, but she made certain not to lose track of a stray hand or foot.

"Where are your mother and brother, then?" he finally asked, gaze trailing to the window.

"Busy with real work," she said with a practiced smile. "No politician worth their salt plays before Parliament breaks for the season."

"I've a mind to tell a few politicians worth their salt that," he chuckled, eyes finding her again. "Part of your brother's Finer Future campaign, I'd assume."

"Yes, we want to make sure that even though everyone has their eyes on the capital right now, we're still focusing on our community."

"I always thought that was a clever approach," he murmured. "My compliments, Miss Stark. You successfully made your brother look youthful and idealistic while also reassuring the old guard that he wouldn't disrupt the power balances in the north. That wasn't an easy thing to do, much less on the heels of your father's death."

"I…thank you," she said, blinking. Where he had discovered she'd pioneered Robb's Finer Future campaign, she couldn't guess. That had been born late one night around her mother's kitchen table, everyone desperate to figure out how to make Robb's bid for election work. She hadn't even claimed credit for it afterward. People were far more comfortable signing checks for a Sansa that smiled and cooed than a Sansa that engineered battle tactics and won. "I didn't realize you paid much attention to my work."

"Oh, I pay attention to everyone," Petyr told her. "But I can tell you are worth far more attention than most. If you can step out of that pretty role you cast for yourself, that is."

"Excuse me?" she asked, shifting to look at him full on. He watched her from his side of the car, a tiny smile on his lips. She had the feeling he had already measured every word for its weight in gold, and was just waiting to see what it bought.

"You're very good at charming people for your brother," Petyr said, "but I wonder what just what you will accomplish when you let yourself have edges that cut."

"I don't want to cut anyone," Sansa said, almost whispering, as though there was something between them she ought not disturb. "Pain doesn't make friends."

The car slowed and she realized they were outside her home, though Petyr paid it no mind. He leaned in conspiratorially, the dark fabric of his suit pressing against her bare shoulder. When he spoke, it was an almost seductive whisper.

"Oh, pain can make excellent friends, Sansa, if it's from the right person."

She swallowed hard and looked at him for a long moment, suddenly getting a sense of why her father had sworn Petyr Baelish was so wicked.

But Sansa liked that he spoke to her as though she were a person, liked how he didn't sugarcoat or soften or tilt things to spare her delicate soul. She liked being treated like she was smart enough to understand whatever happened around her. So, she leaned in to show that she wasn't afraid of him, that she could meet him beat for beat as always.

"And what do I do, Mr. Baelish, with friends like those?"

He smiled very slowly as his gaze circled her face—eyes, hairline, cheekbone, jaw, then settling on her mouth. Sansa swallowed and lifted her chin, further weaponizing their war of flirtation.

Because that was what they were doing, wasn't it? That was why at dinner she had called attention to her viciously red mouth, and that was why he hadn't stopped looking since. Flirtation drew no blood, broke no governments, sank no ships, but it had _such_ a personal amount of risk.

"Anything, Sansa," Petyr murmured. "That's the beauty of it—you can do anything."

"Anything," she repeated, because tonight she was feeling reckless and angry and needed something to prove. "I like the sound of that."

Petyr leaned in and kissed her, careful and precise, one hand pressed against her cheek. And then she kissed back. And then it all became such a mess.

She grabbed him closer and he kissed her hard, _harder,_ fingertips digging into her spine. She scraped her nails through his hair, mussing it from its perfect styling as he bit her bottom lip. His hand slid down the curve of her back onto her bottom, pulling her even closer, forcing her to rise slightly onto her knees. Sansa grit her teeth when he placed open-mouthed kisses on her neck, heat blooming under her skin at how much she liked the scrape of his goatee. She leaned a hand against the seat as he placed her knee between his legs, urging her to ride his thigh if not straddle him outright.

A thrill of excitement or maybe fear went through her as he slipped his hand under her skirt. The way he gripped the upper part of her leg was innocent now, but there were only a few scant inches between him and her underwear. He kissed her again, other hand pressing against the back of her head, forcing her closer. She moved with him, crushing their bodies together so she could stop existing, stop thinking, stop being pretty, perfect Sansa because she had let twice her age Petyr Baelish stick his tongue in her pretty, perfect mouth.

Sansa pulled back with a gasp, her hand still braced against his shoulder, his hand still braced against her thigh. She stared down at Petyr, who was dreadfully appealing with his rumpled hair and traces of her lipstick on his mouth. They were locked in silence, both panting and trying to figure out what they'd just done.

Well, _she_ was, at least. He probably knew and had enjoyed every second of it. She had enjoyed every second of it. She was currently battling with herself over enjoying every second. She was battling with herself over whether she should take his hand and lead him inside.

"I should go," she murmured, face burning as she slid from his grasp. She crawled awkwardly to the passenger door, then paused, looking for her clutch. Petyr didn't stop her, merely held out the clutch from where it had fallen to the floor.

Sansa stumbled out of the car and walked to her door, coat spilling from her arms, feet wobbling in her heels. She listened to his car pull away from the curb as she let herself inside, refusing to look back. She leaned against the door as she faced her empty, dark house, and let out a nervous sigh.

When she went to bed, she could still feel his stubble on her jaw. When she closed her eyes, she could feel his hands on her skin.

* * *

Another party. There would be dozens of the damn things until the ministry was released for the season and all of the hangers on retreated from the capital. And Sansa, of course, had to go to all of them.

And Sansa, of course, saw Petyr again.

She stopped breathing when she caught sight of him through the crowd, heat flooding up her face as she remembered the smooth edge of his rings against her upper thigh. But she didn't go to him. She was neither guilty nor desperate, and there was no reason for her to seek him out.

Sansa worked the party like she usually did, speaking to that minister, listening to that donor, and generally being pleasant and invested in everyone she saw. It was exhausting and tedious when she was dying for Petyr to come over and say something interesting.

Finally, _thankfully_ , he found her at the drink table.

"You're looking very lovely today," he said in way of hello. She couldn't deny the flicker of satisfaction at his praise. She had been worried she looked childish in her flowy turquoise dress, emphasizing that she was still so young, only a few years out of college, poor thing, hardly ready for politics, especially after her father just died. Sometimes the pity made things easier. Sometimes it made her want to spit.

Sansa made herself watch the other guests at the garden party, voice cool and even. "That's quite the compliment, Mr. Baelish, from one who takes image so seriously."

He had forgone the bland beige or grey suits most men were wearing, opting for a charcoal number with emerald green accents. Even his watch was tungsten dark, the hands a barely there slice of gold.

"I suppose I should be flattered in turn, that a young lady such as yourself has paid attention to me. And…hopeful," he added quietly.

She slid him a look, uncertain which was more pressing—the excited squirm in her stomach or her heart punching its way into her throat. He watched her patiently, eyes fixed very considerately not on her mouth, which she had painted a far less dangerous shade of pink.

Sansa swallowed and raised an eyebrow like she'd never known disquiet a day in her life.

"Of course, I wouldn't abandon you over the latest round in our little game. Besides, it's my turn."

He raised his eyebrows and turned to pick up a glass from the table behind them. "And what shall you do, now that it's your turn?"

"Get even, Mr. Baelish, like I always do."

Then Petyr's eyes did flick to her mouth, and for the first time in a long time Sansa loved how _desired_ it made her feel. He didn't look at her like so many men in this city, openly leering as they imagined her touching herself or giving them oral or stripping naked or something equally tasteless. Petyr looked at her like she was absolutely priceless.

Priceless Sansa. It was so much better than just _pretty._ Pretty Sansa couldn't bring men to their knees.

Petyr leaned in and pressed a hand to the small of her back, sending a shock of heat all the way up her spine. "Then you'd best start calling me Petyr," he whispered, and Sansa decided she wanted very much to see where this would go.


	2. pleasant company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the lovely response!! nothing like company when you splash in the puddle of sin!

They texted back and forth. They weren't _stupid_ about it, of course—no need to join the legion of arrogant politicians ruined by an ill-considered photo or request—but there was something deliciously forbidden about texting him, say, in front of her mother or at an important meeting. Even though most of their conversations were utterly pure (more or less), Sansa loved the high of knowing this was not something she was supposed to do. It was also markedly safer than touching him, and it allowed her the luxury of thinking for a moment before she responded to his latest clever retort.

Petyr composed texts like letters, writing everything in full and even including paragraph breaks on his longer messages. She would stay up reading them, sometimes, her phone the only source of light as she looked back over his texts, wondering just how much of it was double entendre and euphemism.

Probably a fair bit. He was the kind that liked having secrets, even if the conversation wasn't dancing around the subject of sex.

What Sansa hadn't accounted for, of course, was him _not_ being satisfied with a handful of illicit texts.

 _Care for some company?_ was all his latest message said, and she was surprised and flattered enough to send back, _why not?_

He knocked on her door at a quarter past seven, wearing an ink black three piece like it was leisure wear. Petyr always looked like he had stepped out of some book or movie from the indeterminate past, all peacoats and polished shoes and cufflinks that always matched his tie. He wielded his clothes like a weapon, making his omission of a tie a scandalous flirtation.

Sansa made sure she looked him in the eye, trying not to feel like a repressed nun getting excited over a glimpse of his throat.

His gaze had settled on her hair. Sansa fought not to touch it—she'd thrown it into a quick twist while making dinner and hadn't checked to see how it had stayed. But his attention didn't seem to be critical as he ran a lock of her red hair through his fingers, then very carefully tucked it behind her ear.

"Sansa," Petyr said, eyes flickering back to hers after a moment. "Long day?"

"Tedious," she corrected, walking back to the kitchen. She stole a glance at herself in the microwave, letting out a tiny breath when she saw her hair was fine. Sansa set her shoulders. He had come to her, she had the advantage. "Shoes by the door, please."

"It certainly smells good," he said, obediently bending down to untie them.

"Thank you. You texted just as I started cooking."

"And what are we preparing?" he asked, coming over to lean on the island. He looked like he'd done this a hundred times and fully intended to do it a hundred more.

"Steak," she said, slicing cucumbers to go on the side with her roasted herb potatoes. She was paranoid about each cut and what he'd say if they weren't perfectly even.

"It sounds lovely, though I can't help but notice there's only one plate."

"That's part of the territory when you invite yourself over," she said, giving him a sweet smile as she crossed to her fridge. "I can offer you sparkling lemonade, though, and a truly excellent piece of toast."

"Ah, but that depends," he said, voice lowering to an almost seductive rumble. Or may she was more repressed than she thought. "What kind of bread?"

"Honey oat."

"Then I must."

Sansa loaded her toaster with a single slice of bread, thinking that there was something quite delicious about feeding a multi-millionaire— _billionaire?_ —a piece of toast while she feasted on strip steak.

Petyr slipped off his suit coat while she ate. He didn't sit on the bar stool, but continued to lean against the counter just a few inches away. She observed her best table manners, feeling curiously like a girl from the fairy stories that was always addressed by the wolf.

"What made the day so tedious, then," he asked her, lemonade in hand. He had taken one polite bite of his toast, then set it down on a napkin.

"Just the usual. People wanting attention, loose ends trying to come even looser, i's that need dotting, t's to be crossed."

"I'd imagine things are worse, since your brother is in the ministry all day."

Sansa shrugged. The last second dash was always a headache when the ministry was in session, but this time the Stark contingent was especially in a flurry, trying to prepare the final touches on his morality bill. It was the first major move Robb had made by himself since their father had died, and how he handled himself now could very well shape the rest of his career. Would he be a little boy stretching in his father's shadow, or a formidable young man that carried a legacy?

"We all do our part," she said, spinning a cucumber on her fork. "Morality laws are always tricky, we can't do anything halfway."

Petyr gave a little _hmm_ that made her look up, wary she had said something wrong.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said, waving a hand. "I was just wondering if you ever swore."

"What?" she laughed. "Why?"

"Your diplomatic description makes me think it's been far more difficult than you would have liked, and when that happens people usually describe things with more color. I also noticed you didn't swear when your car had a flat."

"I _do_ , but it's—"

"Un-ladylike?" he asked, snagging a slice of cucumber from her plate.

"Distasteful."

He bit back a smile, taking a sip of lemonade. "I can see Catelyn had a strong influence on you."

"Why does that sound like an insult?" she asked, reaching for her own glass.

"Oh, I assure you it's not. I knew her when we were in school, and she was always the image of poise, even when confronting an enemy. You, in turn, know what people expect and make use of it. If everyone expects Sansa Stark to be lovely and charming, that is what she shall be. It's very clever."

" _But_?"

He leaned forward, a trickster glint in his smile. "I'd like to hear you say 'fuck', just once."

"I'm sure you would," she said, taking another bite.

His gaze tracked the fork all the way to her mouth, then stayed there. Sansa didn't know how he made a single look feel like he had licked her from collar to chin.

She pinched herself, because that was a very dangerous thing to think with him standing right there.

"Sansa," he said, seductive for how softly he said it, "don't tell me that after I came all this way, you're just going to offer me a piece of bread."

She considered him, then gave a dainty sigh.

"I suppose not," she said, and just as he was beginning to lean in, she speared the last piece of steak and held it up between them. Petyr paused, looking at it in surprise, then back up at her. He leaned forward and slid it off with his teeth, never letting his gaze break from hers.

"Delicious," he told her, the word barely there but somehow echoing behind her collarbone. "I should have made a formal appointment, then I could have had more."

"Maybe," she said, slipping off her stool and stepping around him to put her plate in the sink. "Here, make yourself useful and put these in the fridge," she added, pushing the lemonade and the remains of the cucumber into his arms.

Petyr put them away as asked, and Sansa ran her hands under cold water to calm _down._ All he'd done was look intently at her for a few moments and teasingly asked her to swear. She was in trouble if that suddenly counted as dirty talk and foreplay.

Sansa wiped down the counter to keep herself busy as she asked, "What did you come for, Petyr?"

"Is it so strange to think I craved some pleasant company?"

She gave him a look. "You're an exceptionally successful and social man in King's Landing. I think you could find more scintillating company than a tired politician's aid."

"I don't approve of such deprecating talk from such a dazzling young woman. You make yourself sound like your brother's slave."

"Socialite, then, with humanitarian impulses."

"Better," Petyr chuckled. "There's hope for you yet."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Perhaps I wanted something lovely as well," he murmured, edging closer.

"And yet here you are, trying to corrupt me," she said, because that sounded very correct, didn't it? Petyr Baelish corrupting poor, sweet Sansa who really didn't know better. No one would suspect that she had wanted to ride him like a horse in the back of his car. Still wanted to, if she was honest.

Then again, maybe he did. Perhaps that was why he told her everyone liked a bit of salt in their sweets while giving her an absolutely wicked smile.

She was pressed against the counter, now, boxed in by his presence alone. They were almost the same height without their shoes, and she liked that he never seemed bothered by her towering over him when she wore heels. She also liked the idea of Petyr stretching up to kiss her, she liked it very much.

But that wasn't something she should think in front of him, either.

She dug her nails into her palm and let out a level breath as she looked him in the eye. Sansa hoped very much he couldn't tell how fast her heart was beating in her chest.

"Where does that leave you, Petyr?" she asked. "Any sugar in all that salt?"

He didn't say anything, just leaned in and braced his hands on the counter, not allowing so much as a shirt sleeve to touch her side.

It was very unfair, she thought as they stared at each other for one, two, three seconds, that he could turn her home advantage on its head in twenty minutes or less. She simply _had_ to learn how to do that. And then Sansa relented and kissed him like she'd been aching to all night.

Petyr instantly stepped into her, pressing her into the counter with his hips. She craved it. She craved how he treated her not as a pretty thing to be put on a shelf and admired, but as something lovely and meant to be enjoyed fully. Sansa didn't feel delicate and breakable in his arms, she felt mighty and alluring and _worth_ something.

That was a dangerous feeling, she thought. She could see herself burning entire cities to feel it.

Petyr hoisted her up onto the counter, and Sansa almost purred in delight when he leaned up to kiss her. Petyr didn't immediately move to grope her like some other men had done, but rather took his time, enjoying what he had before he moved on.

He pressed between her legs and Sansa was only too willing to hook them around his waist. She loved the scratch of his teeth and facial hair against her skin and how it was always followed by a soft brush from his lips or tongue.

It was so _stupid_ this was taboo because he was older than her. It was stupid it had taken her this long to find someone that could give her this kind of thrill.

Petyr undid the buttons of her blouse slowly, kissing each place they had touched her skin. She kept her hands in his hair, because otherwise she'd be undoing _his_ buttons and she needed to at least pretend she had ahold of the reins.

"You're an absolute treasure," he said, a rumble against her skin as his mouth brushed across her sternum.

Sansa tilted his face up to kiss him on the mouth again. He undid the clip in her hair, letting it cascade down, letting him hold her head still so he could kiss her harder, deeper. He caught her lip between his teeth, keeping it in place to run his tongue over it so very slow—

Sansa's phone went off, making her jump and look around.

"Don't answer it," he mumbled into her neck. Sansa ignored him, grabbing it from the edge of the counter as he pushed a hand up her skirt.

"No, I—it's my mother," she choked out, staring at the screen. The pleasant warmth brought by him kissing the tops of her breasts was replaced by a mortified blush. "I said I'd call her earlier—"

"Don't answer it," he repeated, breath pooling out to her stomach and up her neck in a way that made her shiver. When she didn't respond, he said, "If you answer that call, you should know my face is going straight between your thighs. Then again," he said, raising a considerate eyebrow as he slipped the phone from her hand, "I'd actually prefer it if you did."

" _Petyr_ , _"_ she hissed, snatching it back, terrified she might accept the call on accident. She was all too aware of the finger he'd hooked into her underwear. "Stop, _no_ , I'm not going to answer."

She dismissed the call with a text, then dropped the phone back onto the counter. Her heart was still skittering in her mouth, and she was terrified for a moment that her mother might call her back.

Petyr kissed her throat, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. Sansa bit her cheek, trying not to pant from both arousal and panicked adrenaline, trying not to think about him giving her stubble burn on her thighs. He angled her hips with his hands, one thumb still hooked tantalizingly beneath her underwear.

He moved his mouth to where her shoulder met her neck, teeth working against the skin.

" _No_ ," she gasped, pressing a hand to his face. "No marks, I can't have people see—"

Petyr didn't let her finish, just moved his mouth down to her chest and gave a playful bite between her breasts.

Sansa gasped again, hand clenching in his hair, and she could have sworn he made a satisfied hum.

She had heard someone say, once, that sex was the most dangerous currency in the world. And she supposed that was true, she'd seen enough people demolish their careers and marriages and legacies over it. But she had never realized just how powerful it could make her feel. Not until the mere _possibility_ of it had sent a multi-millionaire— _billionaire_?—to her door, nor how much she would enjoy it until she had her ankles hooked against the small of his back. And she certainly hadn't realized it would be even better to tell him _'no'._

Sansa lifted his chin with her hand, making him turn and kiss the inside of her wrist.

"I think we might have to call it a day, Mr. Baelish."

" _Petyr_ ," he growled, giving her a playful squeeze.

"Petyr," she amended.

"And I think we might just make a night of it," he said, leaning his head into her hand, suddenly so terribly coy and appealing. "Don't tell me the thought of your mother made you nervous."

"No, but she _did_ remind me that I have a busy day tomorrow. Maybe another time," she said, pressing her thumb over his lips and kissing it. She unhooked her ankles and leaned to the side so she could hop down.

If he was disappointed, he didn't show it. Then again, she knew he wouldn't. Petyr Baelish was a certain kind of dangerous, all men were in King's Landing, if they had any connection or money or power, and he had all three. But his was danger with a smile, not a petulant scowl.

Petyr leaned forward to press his nose in her hair as she picked up his suit jacket, but that was allowed. She even let him kiss her by the door, a perfectly lascivious thing that ended with his hands firmly on her backside. But Sansa knew her play, now, and she would not be so easily swayed.

"Your suit jacket," she said lightly, holding it up for him.

He chuckled and turned so she could put it on him, standing upright and proper as she brushed off his shoulders.

"Enjoy your evening, then, Sansa, and thank you for the toast."

Sansa smiled and let him out, then stood there for a moment, hand still on the doorknob. She would give herself exactly one minute to remember, and then she'd call her mother back.

In the end, she stole two, but she was also starting to realize that's what this was all about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I'm having a crisis because the me that survived the early 2000s fanfic scene is saying do NOT describe the clothing, please, _whatever you do DO NOT_ , but the me that knows the clothes in this show slaps is saying describe EVERYTHING, you _know_ they all look great, do michele clapton proud.


	3. anything more is rumor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! the government of westeros is this neato hybrid of the parliamentary system and the fuedal system. instead of ministers being responsible for a specific aspect of government, like agriculture or health, they are more or less responsible for everything in their physical region. you didn't read this story for imaginary political systems, but it's important to me that you know I've thought way too much about this.
> 
> anyways I love dinner parties so let's have one of those.

This time, it was an exclusive dinner for ministers and other important figures within King's Landing. Officially, it was celebrating a famous victory in Westeros's history. Unofficially, it was everyone celebrating their own power. But Catelyn said that made Sansa sound jaded, so she kept those thoughts to herself.

Really, Sansa was focused on three facts for the night. One, Petyr was there. Two, there were fewer witnesses. Three, they were far more dangerous.

Sansa smiled and nodded and looked attentive and made sure she didn't look for Petyr. At least she had Robb to distract her.

He was princely in a black suit and navy waistcoat, with his hair brushed away from his face. Sansa liked attending these things with him, because it was far easier being wholesome and sweet next to someone who already _was_ wholesome and sweet. Robb didn't lie and he met your gaze and he only laughed when he found something funny. His breed was rare, but they needed a thousand more of him if anything was actually going to change in King's Landing.

"At least we'll be voting in a few weeks," he murmured. "Then people will stop throwing all these parties."

"Strong words for a man who's hardly been to any," she said, burying her words in her glass. She had opted for cranberry juice and soda, knowing that wine would be served at dinner and also knowing that it was the pre-meal mixer that tended to get people sloshed.

He flashed her a profoundly apologetic look. "I know, it's just—this morality law will have people fighting it the whole way. Mother and I—"

"Want it to be perfect so you're spending more time on policy than partying, I _know._ " She squeezed his arm in reassurance. "But please, complaining to the minimum. You're not even wearing heels."

"But I _do_ have to talk to more politicians," he muttered, before hauling on a smile as Olenna Tyrell called him over.

Sansa watched him go, then went to the bar to top up her drink.

"Sansa, my dove, you look _love_ ly."

Sansa had a smile in place before she even turned around. "Cersei. Thank you, you're too kind, I'm sure."

Cersei, of course, was the image of effortless grace. Her long, strawberry blonde hair was pulled into a twist that had the perfect amount of calculated mess and went perfectly with her clean cut evening gown. The rose fabric almost made her seem warm.

She had been married to the former prime minister and though the position had been filled by his brother, Stannis Baratheon, she still had plenty of influence through her minister father. Sansa thought her real power came from making a man want to cut out his own heart with a smile.

Sansa also hated her so much that it made her teeth ache.

"It's quite the show of solidarity," Cersei said, touching Sansa's elbow like they were friends, like she thought her gown sweet, with its wide floral skirt and conservative neckline. "Brings out those lovely Stark blue eyes."

Sansa smiled again, biting down on the fact that Rickon's eyes were darker than hers or Robb's, Arya's eyes were hazel, and Bran's were brown all together. That wasn't really the point, after all. In truth, she _had_ dressed to match Robb, the navy flowers on her dress meant to echo his waistcoat. People loved to talk in King's Landing, and Sansa attending so many events in his stead made idle mouths wonder where he was, what she was doing, why she was never seen with the family. Best to show they matched, they were in step, they were perfectly fine.

Of course, Cersei made it sound gimmicky and cheap.

"I'm sure we're not so devious," Sansa demurred, taking a sip of her juice and thanking the stars she hadn't allowed herself alcohol.

"Although, I'm surprised you didn't err for something darker," Cersei said, tilting her head in mock confusion. "I'm told you've found bolder company of late."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

" _Petyr Baelish_ ," she said conspiratorially, linking arms with Sansa and pulling her away from the bar.

Sansa drew in a breath that was smooth and careful and let it out with a doubtful smile. "I'm not sure who says we're _keeping company_ , but I don't mind speaking to him. He always has something interesting to say at these things, which I'm sure you can appreciate."

"Oh, I'm sure our dear _Lord Baelish_ has many a clever story to tell," Cersei laughed, shaking her head. People liked to throw that around behind his back, _Lord Baelish,_ mocking him for his wealth all because he'd made it himself instead of inheriting it. It didn't really matter that he was one of the wealthiest men there. "I just wanted to warn you of the rumors, little dove. They can be so nasty if you're not prepared, and our families have _such_ a long history. It'd be a shame for you to be tarnished by such deviant tastes."

Sansa stopped breathing for a moment, certain that if she exhaled, she would scream. _Long history_ indeed, that was rich coming from the mother of _Joffery Baratheon_ —after he—and she—

She stopped walking, making Cersei tug on her arm as she kept moving. She stopped and looked at Sansa, eyebrow arched in warning.

"I would like to imagine Petyr as a friend, but as you said, anything more is rumor. Though I'm surprised you in particular would consider it _deviant._ "

"Oh?" Cersei asked, voice flinty and cold though her expression was still lovely.

"Yes," Sansa said innocently, thinking of her shitheel of a son, _wishing_ Cersei could feel every accusation she was not allowed to say. "Prime Minister Baratheon was quite a bit older than you when you married, wasn't he?"

Cersei's smile widened, but she didn't soften. Sansa doubted she knew how.

It was an open secret that Robert and Cersei's relationship had been troubled, long before he had died of renal failure. When the Starks had heard news of Robert's death, there had even been dark chuckles over breakfast.

"Little wonder his kidney failure wasn't due to getting stabbed at dinner," Robb had muttered, which had earned laughter from all of the children, even Sansa. And then Ned had grabbed his face, even though he was a grown man, even though Ned was usually so careful with his children, and snarled at Robb to never, _never_ say something like that again.

To this day, Sansa didn't know if it was because Ned had been all too conscious of his own failing body, or because he had been wary of his son sounding treasonous.

"I think in this case you ought to defer to lived experience and mind your tongue," she said, squeezing Sansa's arm even tighter. "I'm not the one spending time with a man who lives in a brothel."

Sansa didn't even grace Cersei with an uncertain blink.

Sex work, specifically prostitution, was legal in Westeros, though heavily regulated. It was bad taste for important politicians, businessmen, or the like to be caught in such establishments, but it was unlikely to do any real harm. Unless, of course, their father was Ned Stark, who had built a whole career on conservative moral fortitude.

Still, it was a cheap jab meant to taint Sansa and likely Robb by the vaguest of associations. Besides, Sansa would stake everything she owned on Petyr not being the type to throw his money away in a brothel. If nothing else, his pride was too strong.

"Oh, I was _just_ saying I wished I could find someone interesting around here and look, there you are!"

Both Sansa and Cersei turned as Margaery Tyrell bustled between them and latched onto Cersei's arm. She was a vision in silver and periwinkle and surprisingly enthusiastic. Sansa had always thought Margaery hated Cersei. Secretly, of course. Margaery had told Sansa once that Tyrells were only allowed to be honest when they turned fifty, which explained why Olenna honestly told people she thought they were pig shit every day.

"I can't _believe_ I didn't see you this entire time, how are you?"

"Margaery," Cersei said, reluctantly pulling her eyes away from Sansa. "I didn't realize you were back in King's Landing."

"Just got in to see my grandmother yesterday. Sansa, it's wonderful to see you to too, but I have _got_ to speak with Cersei. Don't let me forget to talk to you after, though!"

Sansa blinked as Margaery steered Cersei in another direction. There was talk of Joffery having a sweet spot for Margaery, which was looking truer by the day. Sansa fervently prayed for her if that was the case.

She looked around, allowing herself to enjoy her freedom for precisely a second and a half before she saw Petyr leaning against a wall on the other side of the room. He was a vision in black, though tonight he had chosen to accent his wardrobe with a precise swathe of gold on his lapel. He raised an eyebrow at her and she reluctantly crossed over to him.

"Let me guess," she said, stopping in front of him. "You sent Margaery."

"You didn't seem to be making friends," he said, eyes on the crowd as he sipped his drink—whiskey or scotch or something else that was terribly manly. She felt a little more bitter towards Cersei, because now she was too paranoid to make fun of him for it.

"Well, thank Cersei for that, she was baiting me," Sansa muttered, settling in beside him on the wall.

"Best not take bait from someone you know is on the hunt."

"Easy for you to say," she said sourly, looking into her glass.

"I'm sure you know, but Cersei isn't one to be fooled around with. She doesn't idle with threats and instead goes straight toward repercussions."

She gave him a flat smile. "Trust me, Petyr, I know."

He slid her a look, but thankfully he didn't try to push further. Instead, he asked, "And what exactly was she baiting you over?"

Sansa took a sip of her drink, reluctant to say because she just _knew_ it'd make him smug, but he'd _also_ helped her get away. That probably deserved some shred of truth.

"She made insinuations about the company I keep," she said, looking at him. He held her gaze for a moment, then gave half a nod, eyes turning back to the room.

"Let me guess, she saw me take you home from the charity."

"Or saw us speak at the garden party, who knows."

Sansa hadn't cared about being clandestine before they had kissed, because there was nothing to be clandestine _over._ She was careful and polished in every other damn aspect of her life, she could be allowed one _crumb_ of clever conversation, even if she proved to be too intelligent and cynical and devious for everyone else's comfort. And then she had very intelligently and cynically and really quite deviously let him stick his hand up her skirt.

They were back to staring at the crowd, cool, professional, distant. Sansa absently watched Robb speak to another minister, thinking about the half-healed hickey Petyr had left in the gully of her breasts.

She let out a sharp breath to clear her head.

"Anyway, I took issue with her of all people calling it _deviant_ ," Sansa said.

Petyr looked at her in a motion too smooth to be casual but more than enough to make her uneasy. "Now why would you say that?" he asked softly.

Sansa swallowed, startled at his sudden attention. "Ah…just…you hear stories about Joffery," she said. "He's…not always nice."

Petyr kept watching her for a long moment, then nodded, a grim smile on his face. "No," he agreed. "He certainly is not."

Sansa took another sip, not sure if she should be admitting this out loud. The Baratheons had never been on particularly good terms with Cersei or her children, but Joffery was, if nothing else, a Lannister through and through.

"Still, you'd best apologize to her."

"I'm not going to go back to her like a scolded child," she said, digging her nail into her palm again to keep herself from sounding offended.

"No," Petyr said carefully. "But you will be avoiding future problems."

"By pandering to a _Lannister_?" Sansa bit her cheek at the contempt that dripped from her tongue.

"It's no secret that the Starks and the Lannisters don't get on," Petyr said, unruffled by her outburst. "No need to fuel that fire further."

"But she _started_ it," Sansa muttered, knowing she really _did_ sound like a child now, but feeling savagely justified over it. Cersei had made it her personal mission to pour lemon juice over every one of Ned's cuts before he died. She'd probably weilded the knife sometimes, just for the principle of it.

"And why do you think that is?"

She stared at him for a long moment, unable to find a satisfying answer. Petyr touched her elbow while she thought, a gentler, more genuine echo of Cersei's action from earlier.

"It looks like dinner is ready."

Sansa walked with him into the dining room, only to discover that they were seated across from each other.

"Small odds," she murmured, thinking that the rumors would only grow. Then she caught his smile and was certain that he had moved the seating cards, and was also certain that, despite everything, she was thankful for it.

Sansa settled into her chair. The only person of interest around her was Petyr, as Robb was seated too far down the table for conversation. She put her napkin on her lap, wondering who on earth had made the seating arrangements and what agenda they were serving (unless, of course, it was Petyr). At least they'd had the wisdom to place the Lannisters at the other table. Sansa couldn't bear a meal full of barbs from petty blondes.

The appetizers were laid out before them, stuffed olives and thin, crusty slices of bread. Sansa weathered chitchat with a woman she thought was one of the infinite Frey brood. When the soup course was whisked away and the woman showed no hint at stopping, she shot Petyr a pleading glance. He, of course, was looking at the woman with rapt attention. Sansa internally rolled her eyes and scowled down at her salad, made no more appetizing by the sliced strawberries and candied walnuts.

"Do you not like it?" the woman asked. "I think it looks _amazing._ "

In truth, Sansa resented salads because of the expectation in King's Landing that every woman stuff herself on greens and juice cleanses to maintain the girlish figure that was _so_ vital to running a country. She'd almost cried on her first trip back to Winterfell, because it meant she could _finally_ eat something fried in public.

"I suspect Sansa might have secretly inherited the carnivore gene from her father," Petyr said. "A steak might be more to her taste."

"Mr. Baelish, you _tease_ ," Sansa said, loading her fork as the woman beside them erupted into tittering laughter. "Don't you know that red meat is _terrible_ for you?"

"Oh, Ned was renowned for his love of a good rare steak," he said, that teasing glint in his eye saying he would absolutely remark if there was so much as one scrap of lettuce left on her plate. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be overly surprised that you inherited your mother's more refined tastes."

Sansa enjoyed their little secret enough to not mind, although she was not above a bit of revenge.

She stretched her foot across beneath the table to touch his ankle. He flashed her a look, but Sansa was already nodding along as the woman returned to discussing potential colleges for her son.

"And how are his extra curriculars?" she asked. "Those are always so important."

She slid the toe of her shoe up along the inside of his calf, tracing a line from ankle to knee. Petyr kept his gaze fixed on the woman, though Sansa liked to think every flicker in his face was because of her.

The main course was delivered, a lovely pecan encrusted chicken breast plated very delicately on a cloud of mashed potato. Sansa took a graceful first bite, still nodding along with the woman. She'd drawn in her other neighbor, now, with talk of rowing teams and volunteer work, and was animatedly counting off potential summer programs.

Sansa pulled her foot away from Petyr's leg, slipped off her shoe, then very carefully ran her toes along the inside of his thigh.

Petyr cleared his throat, gaze digging into her. Sansa couldn't help but flash him a quick look from the corner of her eye. She sipped her glass of white wine, watching him attmpt to eat his food as she stroked the ball of her foot along the seam of his pants.

Of course, she should have been watching herself, because Petyr very primly set down his knife and fork and grabbed hold of her heel beneath the tablecloth. Sansa had just enough time to feel dread before he ran his nail up the sole of her foot.

Sansa jerked back on reflex, biting her cheek and letting out half a squawk as she nearly kicked over the table. The only thing keeping her from disaster was Petyr grabbing her ankle and forcing her leg to stay straight.

Her neighbors gave her looks of alarm, and even Robb peered down at her in concern.

"It's nothing, sorry, food just went the wrong way," she said, contriving a little cough and waving off their worry. She dropped her foot out of Petyr's reach, trying to pull herself together.

"She probably bit off a little more than she could chew," he said graciously, picking up his fork to spear another piece of chicken.

"I wouldn't say that," she said, trying not to narrow her eyes at him.

"That's good," he said, keeping her gaze. "Because this really is delicious."

"Oh, isn't it, though?" the woman gushed, though Sansa barely heard her. Her focus was still on Petyr, and more importantly, how one hand was still beneath the table.

Sansa gave him a doubtful look, which just made him raise an eyebrow.

She took another sip of wine, then cautiously raised her foot. He caught it in his hand and gently pulled it into his lap. Sansa watched him as he continued to eat, shivering slightly as he stroked a thumb over her ankle. When she brushed along the inside of his thigh again, he held her steady and moved her just where he wanted her to go.

Sansa was thankful the dessert course was a tiny dollop of lavender and lemon ice cream, because it helped with the flush that crept all the way down in her chest. Then again, people would likely assume it was the wine, not that her game of footsie was strong enough to give Petyr Baelish an erection.

Once dinner was over, everyone was allowed to stay and mingle, though she and Robb had agreed on leaving early. Probably for the best. Otherwise, she might just talk herself into leaving with Petyr, and that was _not_ wise with Cersei's eyes on them. And she could do without more hickeys, though she suspected he quite enjoyed giving them.

Sansa pushed back from the table, slipping her foot into her shoe. She stood up and moved into the main room, nodding and speaking to some minister from the Vale that knew her aunt and uncle. The man was called away after a minute and Sansa looked around for Robb. Instead, she found Petyr. Sansa glanced around the room, relieved to see that the other inhabitants were either drunk or mingling in the far corner, their backs to them.

"I'm surprised you found it safe to stand," she said quietly. "I thought you might have needed a few minutes to cool off."

"Rest assured that I'm quite in control of myself, Miss Stark."

Sansa bit back a scoff, thinking of _course_ Petyr would claim he could will an erection away. Ice didn't melt in his mouth and that was how he preferred it.

"Would I be right in guessing you're leaving early?"

"Yes," Sansa sighed. "Early start tomorrow."

"You seem to have a lot of those."

"At least until Robb finishes up with this morality law. I need to speak to an activist before she gives a demonstration tomorrow morning." Sansa pressed a hand to her forehead. The activist was excited to help, but Sansa needed to go over their talking points again and solidify a few of the numbers. Robb would be presenting the bill in a couple weeks, right before Parliament finished voting for the season. "Passing a morality law is like making a house out of gold. It can be done, but we all know everyone would rather use the gold for something else."

Petyr chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "I'll defer to your experience in politics. But…"

He paused, making her look up at him. She bit her cheek, recklessly hoping he might kiss her or touch her or whisper something exquisitely naughty in her ear.

"Make up with Cersei," he said, voice soft and serious.

She scowled at him, good mood crushed. "No."

"Sansa, what will you do with the wife of the former prime minister, the sister-in-law to the current prime minister, and the daughter of one of the strongest ministers in the country as an enemy?"

"The same I always have," she said flatly.

He hummed in polite disbelief, making her shoot him another glare.

"If she thinks you hate her, she'll make an effort to destroy you," he said.

"And if she thinks I'm lying, she'll destroy me all the faster," she snapped back, then let out a breath. Cersei was under no illusion that Sansa liked her, that had been a forgone conclusion the moment Ned had moved against the Lannisters. The less time Sansa spent around her, the better.

"Why do you think she came to speak to you?" he asked again.

"Because she enjoys picking the wings off insects."

"But why _you_ , why the risk?"

She pursed her lips, then finally admitted, "Because she wanted to see if I was still afraid of her."

"Good. And if she thinks you're scared of her, she'll try to use you."

"I will _not_ be used."

"No," he agreed, looking at her. "But if she thinks she's using you, she won't notice _you_ trying to destroy _her._ "

Sansa gave him a long, weighing look. People were not half so wary of him as they should have been. The Lord Baelish they laughed at probably knew exactly how to ruin them, if he chose. Which was probably why Ned had disliked him so much. There was little doubt her father would have hated everything Petyr had just said. Ned believed that if something couldn't be said out loud, it didn't deserve to be done at all, and he'd done well by that policy. People needed sturdy old men that were moral and just.

But she _wasn't_ a sturdy old man. Digging your heels in wasn't allowed when they were mandated by social law to be stilettos. Instead, Sansa had to be soft and malleable, ready at all times to dodge a blow. Sometimes that meant she lied, sometimes that meant she played dumb, sometimes that meant she surprised everyone with just how much she had been paying attention. And sometimes…it might even mean she played nice with Cersei.

"I never said I wanted to destroy people," she said carefully.

"Then consider it an effort at peace. Either way, if you go over there and make nice, I'll be sure to treat you somewhere special."

"Special as in where?" she asked suspiciously.

"How's the opera sound?"

"Expensive."

"You'd like it."

"Then Cersei really would be right," she sighed, ignoring his raised eyebrow that asked _'now would that be so bad?'_ More people began to enter the room, signaling this conversation needed to end.

" _Fine._ But I'm doing this for _me."_

"I'd expect nothing else," he said, slipping away.

Sansa stood there a moment, cursing to herself, then walked back into the dining room.

Cersei was speaking to some minister's nephew, maybe one of Joffery's bastard friends from school. Sansa tried to look uncomfortable, which admittedly wasn't difficult. Cersei dismissed the boy and looked haughtily up at Sansa from her seat.

"Ah, Cersei, I—Robb and I were about to leave," she blurted, knowing it made her sound clumsy and probably drunk, but Cersei would enjoy it either way.

"How wonderful."

"I just—I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Oh?" Cersei raised another eyebrow, an action that could fell cities with the wrath of her displeasure.

"Yes, I—" Sansa let out a breath through her nose and knew she would have to commit, even if it tasted like bile, even if she would rather swallow knives. She sat in the empty chair beside the woman, hands pressed on her knees like she was a schoolgirl. "I shouldn't have said those things, it was mean spirited and wrong. It's just—it's not an excuse, but I…" She looked away, biting her lip.

"Yes?" Cersei asked.

"I…I was embarrassed by what you said," she mumbled. "About…Mr. Baelish. I really do like talking to him, but I hadn't even considered…maybe he didn't just want to be my friend. I haven't…got a lot of experience with this sort of thing," she finished.

"Oh, poor dove," Cersei said. She leaned forward and put a hand over Sansa's. "And to think, you then had to spend the whole night next to him."

"I barely knew where to look," Sansa mumbled, hoping she didn't sound fake. She wasn't even surprised that Cersei had taken spiteful notice of where she was and who she was with. "But that doesn't excuse how I spoke to you, my parents taught me better. I'm sorry, I know better. I promise it'll never happen again."

"Think nothing of it," Cersei said with a smile, this one coloring her voice with the warmth of a kitten's purr. "Like I said, look to those with experience and try not to lose your head."

Sansa flashed a grateful smile and made to stand up. "Thank you, I'm glad we could solve this. But I should go, Robb—"

"Of course," Cersei said, rising to stand with her, still holding her hand. "Remember what I said."

"I will," Sansa said, easing back, trying to pull away without yanking from Cersei's grip.

"And we simply _must_ have you over for dinner sometime," Cersei added, giving Sansa a painful squeeze. "You and Joffery used to be _so_ close."

Sansa felt like she was choking on her own tongue. She glanced back at Cersei in alarm, then caught the woman's broad, satisfied smile. She finally let Sansa go, allowing her to stumble from the dining room.

So, it had been a test, then. A reminder for Sansa to stay in her place. Cersei had accepted the apology, but she hadn't believed Sansa until she tasted fear.

_If she thinks you're scared of her, she'll try to use you._

It seemed Petyr was cleverer than even she gave him credit.

Robb appeared at her elbow, an expression of alarm on his face. "What did Cersei want?"

"To remind me how things worked," she said. "Come on, let's get out of here, I'm sick of smiling at everyone."

"Fair enough," Robb said, and escorted her to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dramatic irony in this chapter is outrageous and I want a thousand percent more of it


	4. a man of good taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so y'all said you were interested in more clothing descriptions, yes?
> 
> (also holla at my girl makinggold, a true gift and legend for helping me with this story)

The opera proved to be a far more exciting prospect than Sansa expected. Although her mother Catelyn had always been a loving patron of the arts, her father's interest had been theoretical at best. He understood and respected when he watched performances at the peak of their art, he just held no interest in it. The rest of Sansa's siblings were perfectly fine with his apathy, but Sansa had always craved every bit she could get.

She kept wanting to tell her mother she was going to the _opera_ , but that would require explaining who invited her, which wasn't a conversation she wanted to have just yet. A part of Sansa kept expecting whatever she was doing with Petyr to fade away, while a part of her knew she would cling to it _because_ it was forbidden. She just needed to keep people like Cersei from polluting things.

Sansa put on a gorgeous silver evening gown, which was modest enough for the pretty Stark girl image. It had both shoulders, a back, no cut outs, no deep necklines. The skirt was full and the bodice wasn't revealing, but it _did_ have a slit up her thigh that would only show if she tried. The almost secret of it was scandalously satisfying.

She pulled her long red hair into a tastefully messy updo and painted her lips a deep, brick red that matched her nails and her shoes. She knew that the opera nowadays didn't _need_ all of the production, but she _also_ knew Petyr would absolutely dress to impress and she refused to let him outdo her.

Sure enough, when he drove up in his sleek black car, he wore an exquisite black suit with the finest of brocades and shoes that glinted in the dark. Of course, he still wore his bird tie pin and he still wore his rings.

"You're a vision," he murmured, pressing his lips to her hand and leading her from the door. There was no driver, today, just her and him in the front seat of a car that screamed luxury through its subtlety.

Sansa couldn't help the giddy feeling in her stomach as Petyr pulled out of her driveway. She hoped the thrill of doing things she wasn't supposed to wouldn't wear off. She was terribly afraid she'd miss it too much.

It was little surprise when they arrived at the theater and she discovered that Petyr had bought out a whole box.

"Do you usually keep a whole set of box seats to yourself or are you trying to impress me?" Sansa asked, sitting primly on one of the lush velvet chairs.

Petyr smiled and sat beside her, and she knew he'd never tell.

"Have you ever been to the opera before?" he asked, leaning in on the arm of his chair.

"Never," she admitted, eyes drinking in the ornate hall. It was everything she could have wanted—gold leafing, crimson velvet, intricate carvings of vines and stags and flowers and wolves twining the walls and bannisters and ceiling.

"Then I promise it will be quite memorable."

"Have you seen this one before?"

"Not in person, no," he smiled.

"And tell me, while we're here, what got you into the opera?"

"A man can't enjoy a bit of culture?"

"He certainly can, but your knowledge of business, politics, food, music, and art feels suspiciously well rounded."

He smiled again, wider this time, with that dark flicker Sansa had begun to covet. "I've found that people tend to accept a nouveau riche like myself if I look like I've never been anything else. You drink the same wine, you go to the same tailor, you wear even better shoes, and they may laugh at you, but they'll never be able to say you've got bad taste."

Sansa tilted her head, thinking that while it was true enough, Petyr was hardly one to conform. He would make himself look like the people that sneered and called him Lord Baelish, but he would also look like a better version of them. His old-fashioned charm was a weapon as well as a defense, just like everything else he had.

"Very clever," she murmured, mouth quirking in satisfaction when his eyes caught on her lust-colored mouth.

They stayed that way for a long moment, studying each other. Sansa knew she should be doing something clever like searching for the secrets in his face, but she kept thinking about how she was close enough to trace the lines in his forehead with her lips if she wanted, could follow the curve of his silk lapel with her fingers.

The wanting was almost better than the having, she thought, barely daring to breathe. Having something could turn bland, predictable. _Wanting_ something kept you alive with the bone ache of it until you succeeded.

Not that she would let herself grow complacent. Ned had taught her that the lazy were always slaughtered like hogs, and Sansa had yet to see anything refute him.

"You're going to miss the opening," Petyr said, softly, breath sweet and light like mint.

"So will you."

"Ah, but I have a better alternative," he said, brushing her chin with the back of a finger.

Sansa smiled and turned toward the stage.

The performance was, of course, excellent. Petyr would never allow it to be anything else. She tried not to smile too hard at the music and sumptuous costuming, though she did have to smother a giggle when Petyr produced a pair of opera glasses for her. She had spent years in King's Landing and she had never felt so…important. Cultured. Impressive. She was sitting in a box seat wearing a custom-made dress with one of the wealthiest men she knew and it all felt _perfect._

No wearing the same bland pencil skirt as always, no talking with low level bureaucrats at rallies as they sipped water from paper cups, no begging and scrounging and pleading and crawling through the dirt until her knees were raw and her hands muddy and her face ached from smiling. She craved being powerful enough to not have to _smile._ Not unless something really, truly made her happy.

Petyr set his hand over hers, allowing their fingers to lace. Sansa kept her eyes focused on the stage as he stroked his thumb along the side of her palm. Then he stretched his fingers, the tips barely brushing against her skin. Sansa shivered as he did it again, then turned her hand over. She swallowed, trying to focus on the opera, trying to make herself read the lyrics as they scrolled by on the screen. Petyr traced a line from her wrist to the tip of her middle finger, feather light and seductive.

She turned her head to look at him, slow and careful despite her reckless heartbeat. She relished the brush of his breath on her skin. A few inches more and it would be his lips finding her pulse point, which didn't seem like much of an impossibility. His pupils were blown wide, making his eyes enticingly dark.

There was something exceptionally fitting about Petyr showing the greatest signs of lust when surrounded by gold and wealth and velvet. He had told her, hadn't he, right before this whole thing started. The goal was being able to do anything they wanted and just then, Sansa was certain they'd achieved it.

The theatre exploded into applause, tearing Sansa's attention back to the stage. The thick crimson curtains were sweeping together to hide the performers and the house lights were coming up.

"Intermission," Petyr said, sitting upright like nothing had happened.

"Right. I—I'm going to get a drink."

"I could have a bottle brought here. Whatever you want," he said, tilting his head in question.

"I can handle myself," she responded, already standing. She needed a moment to gather herself and decide what the hell she was going to do next.

Denying him was all well and good, but at the moment she absolutely did not want to. She wanted him to pull her into a corner and very properly muss her hair, to run his mouth across her neck and give her a few more delectable bruises.

Sansa checked herself in the bathroom mirror, not sure what she expected her makeup to look like after an hour of sitting quietly, but the routine of it helped soothe her nerves. She was just cutting back across the lobby when someone called her name.

She pivoted, uncertain in the crowd, then blinked. "Varys. Hello. I didn't expect to see you here."

The man gave her a smile that said nothing. They had met a few times before, but Sansa only knew he did _something_ with intelligence. Ned had respected him, though Sansa sensed Varys made him uneasy. Intelligence was about the truth, yes, but it also had a fair bit of telling lies.

"I do try to find pleasure when I can, though admittedly tonight is more business than not," Varys said. "Enjoying the show?"

"Yes, this is my first time at the opera, so there's a lot to drink in."

"You have quite the seasoned guide, I must say."

"Oh, Petyr?" Sansa asked, knowing she had just flushed and wishing it away. She felt caught, then annoyed at herself. She and Petyr were still keeping their association private ( _secret, call it what it is,_ the cynical part of her whispered), but she hadn't actually expected to see anyone she knew. Not tonight, at least.

If she had, what would she have done? Insisted on different cars? Staggered their entrance? She used to laugh at the ridiculous contrivances people did to hide their affairs, and now she was cursing herself for not doing the same.

She swallowed, shaking her head slightly. "When did you…?"

"I saw you before the show, when you entered the lobby," Varys said with a pleasant smile. With the exception of his shaved head, he was perfectly nondescript in his classic black suit and polished dress shoes. She never would have picked him out in the crowd, even if she had been looking for him.

But the best thing to do when caught doing naughty was to deny it and deny it with conviction. She was surprised not alarmed, confused not concerned. He was an old colleague of her father's, a current one of her brothers, she was Sansa Stark spending a pleasant and cultured evening with a man of good taste.

"It's nothing so serious, I promise," she smiled, shrugging slightly. "It came up in conversation a while back that I'd never gone to the opera before, and he recommended this show as an introduction. I didn't actually think I'd see him here, though."

"Lucky girl. Mr. Baelish is a man very learned in the world's selection of pleasures," Varys said. Then he leaned forward, touching her arm in a friendly way that surprised her. She'd always thought of him as cool and reserved. "I tip my hat to you, Miss Stark. I know he's very good at making friends, but it's a rare few that gets to see how he keeps them."

"Nothing so serious," she repeated, without a flicker of doubt in her voice, because that was the game, even if he was much better at it than she. "Petyr's just doing me a favor."

"Yes," Varys said with a nod, a tiny smile lifting his mouth. "He's very good at collecting favors, too."

Sansa nodded at him, less certain, and murmured for him to enjoy the show. She walked back to her seat, pausing silently in the doorway before she went in.

Petyr was reading something on his phone, work, probably, ironing out something important for his telecommunications business. He was handsome as the devil in his black suit, casual in how he crossed his legs and leaned against the armrest, elegant in how perfectly he held out his neat, square hands with their dark, unobtrusive rings.

She still wanted to go in and let him kiss her stupid, but seeing Varys had put her on edge. She was suddenly paranoid, terrified someone might see them. Sansa Stark tripping across a few known faces at the opera was one thing. Sansa Stark sharing a darkened opera box with an older man that had bought out the other seats and looked like he wanted to eat her whole, well, that didn't deserve to be listed in the same breath.

Because—and this was the thing that everyone would think, though they'd never dare to say it out loud—she was too sweet for him. Too young, too wholesome and conservative and naïve. The world that loved to dismiss and mock Petyr would suddenly make him dangerous and devious because she had to be delicate and breakable and it made her sick. She was sickened that she and Petyr both could not be clever and grand and selfish and so much _more_ than that.

Sansa had known she was a vision in silver and red before Petyr had ever told her, dressed to be desired and yet demure enough to say _no, no I had no idea what effect I had,_ all because she liked knowing she could make people do and say and think things without them realizing. And she liked the idea that Petyr knew exactly what she was doing, because of course he would, and she liked even more the idea that he still succumbed to it. That was probably why they were at the opera together. That was probably why they had danced around each other for weeks before he had finally kissed her, lips and teeth and tongue.

Petyr smiled and put his phone away when she stepped into view. "I was starting to worry you wouldn't come back."

"I wouldn't have gotten very far without my clutch," she teased, making a face at him. "No, I met Varys in the lobby."

"Oh?" He turned to face her fully, draping an arm over the back of his seat.

"Yes, he just wanted to say hello. He said he didn't get the chance when we came in."

"How friendly of him," Petyr murmured. "Did he say anything else?"

"No," Sansa said, putting Varys's comments from her head. "I was surprised he said anything to me, I've only met him a few times with my father."

"Oh, but we're old friends," he said, half a smirk twisting his lips. He reached out a hand and traced a lock of her hair as he spoke, sending shivers up her back.

"Really?" Sansa couldn't hide her surprise. "You don't strike me as being very close."

"On the contrary," Petyr told her, letting his finger trace her ear and down her jaw. "We play a lot of chess."

The orchestra began playing, cuing the audience to quiet.

"Are you ready for the second act?" he asked, straightening.

"Very nearly," Sansa said, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The second act was one of breath-taking tragedy. It was where most all of the famous arias came from, Petyr told her, full of drama and passion, broken hearts and crushed dreams. Sansa tried to pay attention, but she was increasingly aware of Petyr beside her, his arm shifting to the edge of his chair, his mouth lingering by her ear when he spoke. Her heartbeat had turned murky with longing as she remembered his hand on hers (and other places).

She missed a whole song as she debated turning around and just climbing into his lap, giving in to all his teasing and kissing him until he couldn't breathe. But the stubborn part of her said _no,_ she was not allowed to do that, he was not allowed to make her do that. Maybe she was being childish and he didn't care, but she liked the idea of pushing him farther and farther by her unwillingness to act.

Sansa almost jumped when he put his hand on her knee. Then she held her breath as he moved it higher, very, very slowly pushing back the fabric until he found the slit over her thigh. Of course, he'd noticed it, even though she'd been so careful not to let it show. Or maybe he hadn't guessed and this was a decadent surprise, it didn't really matter.

Sansa didn't move, even when he traced the tiniest patterns on her hip, fingertip running back and forth over her underwear. This was probably payback for her putting her foot in his lap at dinner. Only, this time there were hundreds more people and there was no table and he had moved his hand fully between her legs.

Sansa choked on a gasp as he stroked one finger down the middle of her panties. Petyr leaned in, giving a soft, filthy _shhhh_ , then did it again, slower. She bit her cheek as he traced circles against the fabric, making her more and more wet.

Petyr paused for a moment and she thought maybe that was it, he had made his point and now they would watch the end of the show. Then he pulled a lily-white handkerchief from inside his suit jacket. Sansa looked at it dangling from his fingers, and she knew that this moment would decide all the rest.

She took the handkerchief and pressed it against her mouth as Petyr hooked her panties aside.

She worked very hard to stay silent, to not make any sudden movement, terrified she'd attract the attention of someone on the other side of the theater. She dug her fingers into the arms of her chair, hips tilting up as he pumped his fingers inside her. He leaned in and placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss behind her ear, grinding his palm against her pearl.

Sansa clenched her teeth, reaching over to lock her fingers in his hair, holding him there, making sure this was real, that wonderfully indecent Petyr Baelish had treated her to the opera so he could make her come in public.

This, she wanted this, she thought blearily, slumping in her seat. She wanted influence and the right to anything the way some longed for platinum and jewels. Sansa ached for it, even more so if she had to lick it off his fingers.

Petyr pulled his hand from under her skirt and very delicately took the handkerchief she'd been stifling her moans in. He cleaned first his hand then between her legs in a way that was admittedly arousing, but not enough to cause any trouble.

"The opera will end soon," he said softly, folding the kerchief and tucking it away in his jacket once more.

Sansa gave him an incredulous look that he could be so blasé, which just made him lean in and whisper, "Dirty talk is best suited for bedrooms and whores."

"And what do you know about whores?" she asked crisply, making herself sit up straight.

He gave her a crooked grin but didn't explain. The last song finished with a wailing note from the male lead—a few more people had died, it seemed—and the opera house once more erupted into applause. Sansa reluctantly joined, watching Petyr as he stood, buttoned his suit, then held his hand out to her.

"Come on, Sansa," he said when she hesitated. "Consider this a second intermission."

There was something in his eyes, something that said _more more more_ , that made Sansa take his hand and hurry to the lobby.

They glided across the marble flooring and were waiting for their coats at coat check before anyone else had reached the lobby. Sansa found herself biting her cheek again as Petyr stood next to her, all too eager to get to the privacy of his very nice car and its very tinted windows.

He stood close to her back, hip grazing her side. She wondered if he was standing so close to hide another partial erection, then made herself stop wondering and instead tried not to look like she'd just been fingered during the final number. She couldn't even be sure how it had turned out. She knew people had died but she just kept thinking about climbing Petyr like a pole, hiking her skirt around her hips as he undid his belt and—

They received their coats and Petyr pressed a hand against the small of her back, guiding her out to the doors. They sailed through the parking lot, Sansa letting out a girlish giggle as they yanked open the doors to the car and then they were inside and then they were kissing.

There wasn't any playing coy this time; the doors closed and then his hands were around her waist and her tongue was in his mouth. She raked her hands through his hair, savoring the caress of mint as she kissed him slower, deeper. Petyr pulled her closer, urging her to skip the distance between their seats so she could climb into his lap. The thought was tempting, her core thrummed at the thought of going again, of having his careful attention on her, his mouth on her, his hand on her panties as he dragged them down to her ankles and Sansa was so certain he would moan very prettily if she looked him in the eye and straddled him there, her silver skirt pooling around them and—

Then she thought about intrepid strangers with camera phones and started to panic. She'd already met Varys tonight, the chances of being recognized were already far greater than none.

" _Wait_ ," she mumbled, earning a playful bite for her troubles. "Wait, wait, I'm not going to ride you here and accidentally honk the horn or something."

"Then I'll put the seat down and we can be careful," he mumbled. His hand had found its way beneath her skirt again, though this time it stayed on her hip.

" _Petyr,_ " she said, hoping it sounded more commanding than a gasp. "We're not sloppy teenagers, I'm _not_ doing it in a car."

"Then come home with me."

She looked at him, terribly tempted for a moment, already imagining herself in his bedroom or living room or, hell, even the hall, the delicacy of his hands on her zipper contrasting the ruthlessness of his mouth on her lips, his breath brushing the top of her spine, his body pressing against her as he whispered all those wicked things not allowed in public.

Sansa wanted to say yes, of course, she had no doubt he would be an excellent end to an excellent evening. But the pragmatic side of her resisted the lure of his mouth, begging caution. Much as she would like, it was not just them two that needed to be considered.

"I can't," she whispered.

His expression didn't change, though he did blink, once, very slowly. She watched him closely, searching for anger, for disappointment, for any sign that she should get out of his car and find her own way back.

He tilted his head and brushed her cheek with his fingers. He ran his thumb over her lower lip, slowly, slowly, and for a moment she thought he would kiss her again. His eyes certainly looked hungry enough for it.

"That's disappointing," he murmured, letting his hand drop. "May I ask why?"

"My mother is coming over early tomorrow."

He raised his eyebrows. "It's a Saturday."

"I know," she sighed. "But Robb's bill goes up for the vote next week and we need to go over the final details, and I _don't_ plan on starting my weekend with either of us doing the walk of shame at dawn."

"Fair enough," he said, turning on the car and sliding out of their parking space.

Sansa sat in uncertain silence as he drove her home. Refusing Petyr worked very well as a power play, but it also worked very well for making her feel like a tease.

"You're staring," he said as they pulled to a stop light, glancing at her with a half-smile. It was too dark to see if it reached his eyes.

"We're okay, right?" She pursed her lips. She sounded painfully young and, even worse, uncertain. "You're not—"

"Upset?" He picked up her hand and kissed the palm. "No, sweetling, I only wish for better timing."

He held her hand all the way to her house and walked her all the way to her door.

"I enjoyed tonight," she said, smiling at their gap in height made by her heels and the front step.

"I should hope so," he murmured. "Had it been any other day, it wouldn't have to end."

"Any other day."

He stepped up beside her and gave Sansa a kiss, this one deep and filthy and meant to make her regret, just a little, turning him down.

Sansa let out a short breath, the cool mintiness he had left on her tongue battling the heat in her face.

"Enjoy your night," he said and stepped back.

" _Wait,_ " Sansa said, reaching for him. Petyr raised his eyebrows in an unbearably smug look, which Sansa ignored as she pulled the kerchief from his inside pocket.

"I'm keeping this," she said, giving it a little wave. "So you don't get to cheat."

"Now you're just being cruel," he told her, but he wore a tiny smirk that said he approved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am personally devastated that I have varys in this story and can't show conleth hill mugging for the camera like an absolute champ


	5. all's fair in the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come what may, I love this chapter very, very much because of the _spicy_.
> 
> cw: non-detailed political discussion of human trafficking

Catelyn came over unbearably early, just as planned. Any doubts Sansa might have had over not spending the night with Petyr were squashed when she struggled to get up and get dressed. It would have been even more miserable if she'd had to account for leaving Petyr's, and without a full night's sleep, no less. Although, it was certainly entertaining to imagine smuggling _him_ out of her house with her mother in the living room, mostly because she wanted to see Petyr climb out the back window barefoot like a naughty teenager.

At least her mother was sympathetic to the unholy hour.

"I'm sorry, love, it's the only time I had today," Catelyn said, waving a hand and sipping her coffee. It probably was her second of the day, even though it was barely seven. Sansa's mother always insisted that everyone eat properly and get enough sleep and drink plenty of water, but always somehow managed to neglect her own health. The only things that got her through political crunch times were gallons of coffee and sheer willpower. "I'm meeting with some journalists after this, giving them a few tidbits to start us off right."

Sansa nodded, stirring honey into her cup of tea. Robb was going to propose a regulation that would hopefully kneecap human trafficking from Essos. Technically, it was a regulation on tourist locales, but the knock-on effect, the _intended_ effect, would make front companies far more vulnerable to search and prosecution for violating the law. It was the kind of moral lawmaking Ned had been known for, but modernized so Robb looked proactive and flexible instead of reactive and static. If they could stick the landing, Sansa knew it would make his career.

"You talked to the spokesperson, right? Ran through the last second details?" Catelyn asked, scrolling through her phone.

"Ariana, yes," Sansa said. She had personally found and vetted an activist with hair-raising experience with human trafficking. Her testimony in Parliament was their clincher.

Laws on vice were always sticky, liable to be caught up in the bureaucracy until they shriveled and died, if not thrown out completely. Ministers always feared being the ones that were lambasted by religious factions and were only too eager to brush the uncomfortable laws aside. But it was easier to pitch a law on tourism than the hot button issue of vice, so Robb's team had spent mind-numbing weeks crafting this plan that would let them spin it to their own ends. And once Ariana gave her stats and figures, once she showed how it all came together, they would be safe. No one with half a brain could oppose a bill after a weeping mother of four detailed eight years of dehumanizing misery on television.

"Excellent. Then I just need to touch base with Frey again—"

"You're sure he's not going to stall the vote?" Sansa asked. Walder Frey was a contrarian by birth and vehemently against innovation by habit. He liked things the way he liked them and would fight wizened tooth and nail to keep it that way. Sansa counted down the days until he died. In public, she praised his many fine years of service to the country. Westeros needed men like him to remember just how far they had come.

"Yes, oh yes, I've had constant talks with him. He understands that it's best for him to play along," Catelyn said, mouth grim. Sansa hadn't been able to attend the litany of lunch dates convincing Frey to stand down (he had a curious resentment towards women telling him what to do, and while Catelyn deserved some modicum of respect by virtue of marrying Ned, Frey apparently liked to call Sansa 'a vapid little puppy'), but she had always held a bitter satisfaction knowing Catelyn took no prisoners.

The image of poise, Petyr had said, even when confronting an enemy. It was a level of diplomacy Sansa aspired to.

"Anyways," Catelyn sighed, "after Tuesday we can finally have our lives back."

"Speak for yourself, I went to the opera last night," Sansa said. Then she violently cursed her lack of sleep, because that was not what she wanted to tell her mother. She forced herself to keep typing on her computer, innocently unaware of Catelyn's attention.

"Oh?" Catelyn raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know that."

"No? I could have sworn I told you," Sansa said, frowning slightly and looking up from her screen. "It was amazing, I'll definitely have to go again."

"This was your first time, wasn't it?" she asked.

Sansa smiled and nodded, the soles of her feet prickling with anxiety at the memory of Petyr's hand up her skirt.

"When did you get tickets?"

"It happened last second. A friend offered to bring me," she said casually. "You wouldn't know them."

"Well, I stand corrected, then. Once Robb passes this bill, then _I_ can have my life back."

* * *

The bill didn't pass. Robb did everything right, better, even, he was everything Sansa could have hoped, but the bill did not pass. Ariana, their key witness, the one to convince all of Parliament that this was for the betterment of all humankind, didn't show.

Not for lack of trying. Sansa had personally driven to Ariana's home to pull her from bed or rescue her from a flat tire or haul her from a burning building, but the woman never even opened the door.

"Go _away_ ," she'd yelled. It sounded like she'd been crying. "I never should have put myself out there for people like _you_."

And no matter how many promises, reassurances, and threats Sansa had made, she would not budge.

So, Robb had been left with facts and figures that he had not been expecting to deliver, making him look uncertain and ill-prepared. And while he had promised that it was for everyone's good, really, it would cripple the modern slave trade in Westeros, it wasn't hard to pick apart.

Tywin Lannister did it with grim glee. _He_ would never endanger the venerated tourist trade on some anecdotal evidence, he had told the chamber, and his esteemed colleagues would do well to agree, if they didn't want to _also_ cripple the tourist economy. And then, of course, others joined in and the seas changed and Robb ended the season in King's Landing not with a resounding success but a pathetic thud.

Walder Frey, of course, voted just as they had planned.

It was Sansa's fault. She'd found Ariana, she'd convinced her and made the introductions and helped write the speeches and failed to make her appear when Robb needed her most.

"No, Sans, it's nothing," he said numbly, reaching over to weakly pat her knee. They had retreated to his apartment to deal with the loss, and it had taken every icy smile and diplomatic refusal in Sansa's arsenal to keep out the aides and advisors and _people_. This was a matter for the Starks, what few of them were left in King's Landing.

Robb had had a thousand-yard stare since Parliament let out. Even when Grey Wind nosed his hand in greeting, the dog only received an absent pat.

" _No,_ this was _my_ job, I just had to make sure she'd be there," Sansa said, pinching the underside of her arm so she wouldn't cry because she was so _angry._ She wanted to smash Ariana's windows for not following through, but Robb might have still made it if Tywin hadn't seen weakness and pounced. Weeks of work, _months_ of work on the Finer Future Program, all thrown away with a lazy flick of the Lannister gaze. Just when she thought they'd hurt her enough, they found a way to make it _worse._

"Sansa, you couldn't break down her door," Catelyn said, voice ragged. She'd been on the phone haggling with journalists the moment Robb had lost the vote, trying to give them a different story, trying to convince _someone_ not to talk about how the northern wonder child had proved too young to sit at the adult table.

Sansa glared at the wall, thinking that yes, she _should_ have, she should have threatened to burn down the building if Ariana didn't come out now and honor their damn agreement. Then she wondered if maybe she had pushed too hard, made the woman dredge up old trauma. But no, she was an _activist,_ she'd told Sansa she was looking for a platform. What better platform was there than looking every Westerosi minister in the eye?

The trouble was, this wasn't about failing to get a random bill passed or failing to make a single activist appear before Parliament. It was about Robb being unable to win his first success after Ned's death, it was about looking small and incompetent and like he was only good for carrying out his dead father's plans.

The specter of Ned hung in the room, haunting them with his sorrow and his disappointment. It had been almost a year since he had passed, just enough time to cover up their wounds, not to stop being hurt by them.

"It wouldn't be so bad if everyone wasn't talking about it," Robb said, forcing himself to stand up and walk to the kitchen. He filled a glass with water, the motion muggy, unfocused. "Afterward, some advisor for one of the Vale ministers…I still can't tell if he was mocking me or trying to help."

"What'd he say?" Sansa asked darkly, folding her arms.

"'Passing a morality law is like making a house out of gold, young Stark,'" Robb said, mouth twisting in annoyance. "And the way he said it, like I was some _child_ , like I didn't know how to vet my own people, I—"

"What?"

Robb looked at Sansa, eyebrows pulled in confusion, but Sansa's world had turned very, very quiet. She almost didn't hear herself ask him to repeat what he'd said.

"I said, he was acting like I didn't—"

"No, about what he said, a house out of gold."

"He said it could be done but people would rather use the gold for something else, so I needed to be careful about who I brought on board."

"Clever," Catelyn said, mouth twisting bitterly. "He was probably chewing that line over the whole time, praying he could catch you before you left so he could feel smart."

Sansa blinked once, twice. She'd said that to Petyr. Weeks ago, now, at the dinner, and—she had mentioned—he'd known—the activist—

She stood up. "I need to go, I'm sorry."

"What?" Catelyn was looking at her, still speaking, asking questions, trying to get her to stay, but Sansa couldn't quite hear her. She walked to her car, not feeling the ground, not seeing the things around her. And then she was in her car and the door closed and everything was fine again, she was lovely Sansa and nothing could dent her smile.

 _Are you busy? I'm in the area,_ she texted Petyr, already knowing it didn't matter what he said, already knowing that _this_ time, she really would break the door off its hinges if she had to.

 _I can make time,_ he wrote back, because of course he did.

Sansa parked very neatly and paid the meter and walked up the steps of his imposing office building and took the elevator and smiled at his secretary.

"Miss Stark," she said after Sansa gave her name. "He's expecting you inside."

Sansa walked through the impressive double doors into his sleek leather and oak office, the door closing behind her.

"Sansa," Petyr said warmly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "What—"

"Why did you do it?" she asked, and she was pleased to hear her voice held nothing at all. No anger, no hurt, no betrayal. Just a perfect void of nothing. He couldn't dismantle nothing.

"Why did you ruin my brother's bill?"

He straightened in his expensive leather chair, the warmth gone, the smile gone, his face left equally empty as hers.

"What makes you say that?"

"Some advisor from the Vale, he said morality laws were like houses of gold. I only said that to you and it's too specific to be coincidence."

He considered her, then leaned back. "It was a very good line."

"He seemed to think so."

She stared at him, expecting something, dreading everything. But he remained level and reserved, watching her with cool, dark eyes.

"Why did you do it?" she repeated. "After everything, after all Robb's done—"

"I don't remember caring much for Robb's actions."

"After everything _I've_ done," she corrected, and while she regretted the not-calm bite in her voice, she was glad that it stopped him from speaking. "I've poured _everything_ into this, this was going to make his career, this was going to make _my_ career. I thought—" Damn her, she hated this was what caught in her throat, _this_ shard of sentiment "—I thought you liked that I had aspirations."

"I do."

"So _, why_?" she demanded, stepping closer. "Why did you stop this?"

He looked at her for one terrible moment, then said, "However high-minded your brother's intentions, it complicated my business."

"Your _business_ is _telecommunications._ We were going after tourism and—"

"I own three brothels across the city," he said flatly. "Your bill was aimed toward illegal trade, but it was vague enough to open both me and my customers to persecution, which I could not let happen." He tilted his head in a _worried_ expression and Sansa almost threw her handbag at him. It was him patronizing her that had started this shit in the first place. "Don't tell me you didn't do your homework."

She blinked twice, momentarily forgetting how to breathe.

She hadn't. She hadn't looked him up. She vetted everything from her coffee shops to her dentist and yet Sansa had somehow failed to research the business tycoon she had been having an affair with. Because…why? Because she didn't think it was an affair? Because it was secret, away from everyone's prying eyes?

But they _were_ having an affair, and it was private certainly, but she couldn't quite call it _secret._ They had been out together in public, he had fingered her _in public._ And it wasn't like she could claim ignorance about this, she had _known_ he was cutthroat before they had ever met. Ned had told her a snake was a snake, no matter how pretty the scales, no matter how charming the hiss, and yet she had tricked herself into thinking he was something else entirely.

Sex really was the most dangerous currency. Sansa had bought her own defeat with it and hadn't even realized.

"You would trade hundreds of lives, _thousands,_ millions of hours of human suffering for a profit margin?" Sansa asked coldly, because it was easier than admitting her mistakes and easier than feeling stupid.

"I don't condone the illegal trafficking of humans," Petyr told her, standing and adjusting his cufflinks in one smooth motion. "By all means, it would be best for everyone if it stopped, but today, at least, you will have to find another way."

"Morality is negotiable, then, as long as it's _convenient."_

Petyr cut her a look so hard and unmoving it scared her. "Don't play the saint, Sansa. We all know this is a game of sliding morals, even for the Starks. The clever ones, at least. What did you and your mother promise and trade away to get your votes? Not your brother, surely, he's too much in his father's vein. What did _you_ compromise on—education? Tax policy, environmentalism, all things with human suffering attached, all things you would have had to barter or trade in order to get this bill to work. All things are negotiable when you have a need and saying otherwise makes you a liar or a fool."

"Not this, not to me," she said, glaring at him as he came around to lean on the front of his desk. They both knew that was a lie, though. In that moment, in the sleek chill of Petyr's office, she could imagine a deal that could make her delay or modify the bill. She could think of a thousand deals if the outcome was worth it. She might have even enjoyed it, if the negotiations proved challenging.

But he could not be right. Not after he had stabbed her in the back, not after he had cut the heart out of something her family believed in and loved. They should have won. They had done everything right and the Starks should have _won._

"You really didn't care that you were doing this?" she asked him. "You take me to the opera and then you screw over my family."

"I didn't cherish it, but all of you will recover."

Sansa stared at him, making herself breathe long and slow before she spoke again. "Is this punishment for not sleeping with you? Or were you always going to do this?"

Sansa found that she was too scared of his answer, so she laughed to fill the space.

"No, of course you would have, silly me. All's fair in the world of Petyr Baelish."

"I rate you very highly, Sansa, but not even you are important enough to sink a bill over."

"And I'm not important enough to leave it be, either."

Sansa looked past him to the grand windows, preferring anything to his haughty confidence. Petyr had a glorious view of King's Landing, and still he placed his back to it, just to prove he could. All of these rich and powerful men were the same. They wore different suits and drove different cars and kissed different women, but in the end, they just wanted people to know they were too impressive to care.

"Why her, though?" Sansa asked quietly.

"The activist?"

"She has a name."

" _Ariana,_ then."

"Yes, why did you threaten her or bribe her, or—whatever. Or your _associates,_ " she added, sending him a forbidding look before he corrected her. "You could have done anything, but you ruined her credibility and made my brother look like a fool."

Petyr considered her for a long moment, a beautiful carving of grey and black and gold. Then he seemed to make a decision, stepping closer to her.

"It's the easier answer. I could have talked to a dozen ministers or aids or advisors and ordered, threatened, or charmed them into voting how I liked, and then have to deal with all irritating handholding they would require. _Or_ I could speak to one that would benefit from the bill failing and plant a few ideas about him sabotaging young Robb Stark's secret weapon. Take heed, Sansa. The weakest link is the one no one's watching."

Petyr stepped even closer so he was directly in front of her, and he reached out to touch her elbow. Sansa jerked her arm away from him and he pulled back, then ever so gently let his hand alight on her shoulder. She wished she could have slapped it away, but she didn't think she had the control to do that and not scream.

"Be honest," he said softly, voice losing its edge. "If your bill was weak enough to be picked apart because one piece was out of place, because Tywin Lannister felt bored at the end of the session, it wasn't destined to live long, anyway. It would fall apart after the first round of adjustments, one of a thousand bits of legislature that decayed into nothing before it was actually put into effect."

" _No,"_ she insisted, but her voice was low, some of the hurt bleeding around the edges. "I could have sworn it was perfect. I promised myself it would be _perfect._ "

"Next time, sweetling." He touched his thumb to her chin, a gesture of comfort before he leaned in to kiss her.

Sansa flinched back and Petyr hesitated before kissing her again. Sansa pushed against his chest, falling back a few steps, mouth a harsh line even as the place his lips touched burned.

"You don't get to do that," she said, shaking her head. "You don't get to kiss me like you've done nothing wrong."

Petyr looked at her with all of the calculating intelligence she found so very attractive before. She shook her head, choosing numbness over fear.

She hadn't expected Petyr to be contrite, it wasn't in his nature. Not over something like this. Mostly, Sansa had come to be able to say she had. She owed herself that much. She had so naively laid down at the feet of this big and powerful man, the least she could do was protest when he stepped on her neck.

And now there was nothing left. She wouldn't yell, she wouldn't rage, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Sansa turned and walked to the door as Petyr watched her, not saying anything, not trying to call her back. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. She shouldn't have stopped, she knew that, she should have allowed herself the dignity of a clean exit, but she had to know. She had to have him say it to her face.

"Just tell me one more thing," she said. "What friends did my pain bring you?"

"It wasn't your pain, sweetling, not really. Merely your brother's."

"Strange, Petyr," she said, looking back at him in his big office and its well-stained wood and richly carpeted floors and view of every important building in King's Landing. "Because I feel cut."

Sansa was surprised by how little she felt as she walked back to her car. She would have expected anger, hurt, but she just felt hollow, embarrassed, maybe, to have been tricked so well. Most importantly, she felt informed.

Sansa took a sip from her water bottle, touched up her lipstick, and breathed deep to loosen the knot of pain in her chest. When she checked herself in the mirror, her smile was sharp and held no depth.

_Don't play the saint, Sansa. We all known this is a game of sliding morals, even for the Starks. The clever ones, at least._

His kiss should have felt like gunfire, but all she could think about was how soft his lips were.

She smiled again and this time she let it shape her face, made her eyes bright and her mouth gentle, easy as breathing. Flawless. Then she let it go, checked the road was clear, and backed out of her parking space.

She needed to go pick up donuts or muffins or something to explain where she'd gone, and then she needed to play this game a hell of a lot smarter.

But later, briefly, before she fell asleep, Sansa let herself curl up and cry into a pillow. She let herself feel miserable for having been so ruthlessly tricked. She let herself be sad that her father was no longer there to pat her on the back and tell her this was why she should never trust a man that knew so many ways to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey this probably goes without saying but doesn't hurt to say it anyways--petyr is wrong and did a bad.


	6. for the sake of another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more story! more spicy! more catelyn being a good parent and one of maybe three reliable authority figures in this whackadoo world!

Sansa learned every damn thing she could about Petyr Baelish. He was private by nature, but she sifted through every one of her skills, advantages, and contacts to cobble together the dossier she should have made from the very beginning. His education was impeccable, his social life high-profile, and his business was gifted. This, of course, included his three registered and refined brothels. They were all high-end and cultured and made her throat close with bitterness.

He was, in short, exactly the kind of man she might have wished for. He dressed well and he was a natural at reading people and he knew exactly where to kiss her to make her breath catch. Petyr's only real flaw was having a ruthless streak just large enough to include her.

Sansa let a couple of days pass, then mailed a glitter bomb to his office, just because. There was a chance it might never reach him, but there was _also_ a chance it exploded glitter all over his very fine desk and suit and carpet, and that he'd find it clinging to his skin for months.

The spite of it made her feel better but didn't actually help any. After a week of chasing herself in circles, Sansa called her mother.

"Can I trust someone after they betrayed me, even though I should have known better?"

"Oh, darling, Ariana wasn't your fault," Catelyn said, voice worn to softness, even through the phone. "No one could have predicted she would back out. This was probably scarier than she thought. Not everyone's ready to stand before a room full of lawmakers."

"I should have done more," Sansa said, because that was true, regardless of Petyr's interference. She should have chained Ariana to her side the night before, so no amount of anxiety or bad luck or threats could have stopped her from appearing before Parliament and securing the Starks a win. Then again, she'd mentioned the bill to Petyr weeks back. He could have gotten his hands on Ariana that very night.

Catelyn sighed, oblivious to the twists in her daughter's thoughts. She still sounded tired from travel. She had arrived in Winterfell a few days after the vote, determined to be home in time for Bran and Rickon to return from school for the holidays.

"There are a number of things to consider," she told Sansa, relenting. "If they're sorry, if you can right the scales, if they had no other choice…and—you have to be honest with yourself on this one—if you can afford to not work with them again."

"Okay," Sansa said slowly, starting a tally in her head.

There wasn't an apologetic bone in Petyr's body over what he'd done, though she couldn't say if he'd do it again. Pragmatism said yes, he'd made it clear he'd use any and all things that fell in his atmosphere. And yet she couldn't help the sprig of doubt whispering there was something more. Petyr was more than willing to smile and make friends with everyone in the city, just as he was ready to scheme against them when able. There was never any clear evidence, of course, just a whisper here, him being seen on the edges there, mere fragments Sansa only put together through brutal experience. But not once in all her research had she ever seen Petyr take an active interest in someone.

And yet he had tutored her on how to play this game just like him, had praised her so sweetly when she showed a skill for it. That wasn't nothing.

"Of course…you could simply forgive them," Catelyn said. "There's power in handling a defeat with grace. But Sansa, darling, whatever you do, you _must_ be sure not to let them use you twice."

"What if I can't?" she asked quietly, because she was no fool. She was young and had no contacts or influence of her own, at least, not yet. Most everything Sansa had was a legacy from her parents. Petyr had a whole lifetime of experience on her, and a fortune to boot. Things were balanced only if he wished them to be.

Catelyn was quiet for a long moment, and Sansa almost took that for her answer. But then she said, "Then think very hard about why you go back and do not make it a habit."

Sansa nodded, even though her mother could not see. It bore repeating, especially with a man like Petyr. He liked power and he liked being praised for it. But that was a taste she had recently acquired for herself, so she couldn't judge him too harshly.

"Give my love to Rickon and Bran. Jon, too, if you see him," Sansa said, smiling so her voice would sound warmer.

"He's up in that monastery, I doubt his masters will let him come down," Catelyn groused. Jon had been adopted from infancy and though he had been raised as though he were blood, he had broken from the family tradition of politics in favor of religion. Catelyn had not been pleased when he decided to join the order of monks up in the northern utmost reaches of the country, but Sansa knew it was best that he had. He and Arya both weren't suited to politics, too honest and hot-tempered by half.

Catelyn let out a slow, measured breath. "Be careful with whatever you do, please."

"I won't do anything to harm the family name, I promise," she said, giving a wry smile.

"Don't do anything that harms _you_ , Sansa. I know you're quite clever, but be careful. You're the only you I've got."

Sansa said her good-byes and hung up the phone, oddly touched. She wished she could say she was going to do her mother proud, but Sansa doubted Catelyn would have approved of _anything_ she'd done with Petyr. She could, however, make sure she was every bit as graceful and poised and cunning as her mother hoped her to be.

The only thing left was for her to decide if it was worth cutting him off entirely.

Her cautious side said _yes,_ he had used her once but never again, she should return to safer waters where her family's political career was no longer on the line. And for a couple days that was fine. She did her job because she was good at it, because it kept her busy, because there was so, _so_ much damage control to do after Petyr raked his fingers through her life. She was righteous and angry and she would never again let herself be used or hurt or tricked, never, never, never.

And for a couple of days she consistently felt her heart break.

Not over Petyr, no, she refused to let that be true, but over everything she'd lost. She couldn't go back to being tidy, sweet Sansa that fit in a pristine, boring little box. She couldn't stand the idea of going back to doing what everyone else said.

Not after Petyr had shown her how to very neatly bend the rules however she liked. He played the game crooked and he did it so well that no one had ever thought to catch him at it, though her father might have certainly wanted to try. Though he held no office, though he had no legacy, though he had had nothing when he started, Petyr always ended up ahead. He had told her such a thing was possible, but if she ever went back, she would have to learn how to do it herself.

Because that was the shitty thing, the shameful thing, the sure thing—she _wanted_ to go back. She missed Petyr and the way he kissed her indecently and didn't treat her like she was too delicate to be touched. She missed how powerful she felt with him, not because she skimmed off his influence but because he recognized she was a marvel all on her own.

Still, she was a marvel that he had been content to use. She remembered his warm, welcoming smile when she had walked into the office, perfectly calculated to soothe after what he'd known was a devastating blow. He'd probably expected her to fall into his arms, sobbing and lamenting the failure of Robb's bill, sweetly ignorant of his own part in the plan.

It was tidy, she had to admit.

So that was the trick, then. Sansa had to play Petyr's game and still feel powerful and not get hurt and be as successful as she knew she could be. That or let herself be a husk of what she was. Not so hard, she thought, painting her nails. Not now that she knew what to look for.

* * *

 _I'd like to talk._ Sansa tossed the text in the ether, knowing he wouldn't make her wait. It was only a little after seven when he responded.

_What did you have in mind?_

_Can I come over?_

She felt a sour twist of satisfaction when he sent back his address, and she even laughed when he added, _Hopefully, there won't be any glitter._

 _None,_ she promised, then went to go fix her hair.

Petyr very predictably lived in one of those elegant townhomes that was too dazzling to be real. It was nuzzled away in the middle of the city, made of carefully maintained brick and crisp white window frames that spoke of money. When he opened the door, the entryway was appealingly dark, all clean lines and polished floors.

"Sansa," Petyr said, like she was a pleasant surprise despite her announcing she would visit. "Allow me to take your coat."

She let him slide it from her shoulders, swallowing down her shiver when his hands brushed over her arms. It was pathetic that his touch still gave her goosebumps.

Sansa focused instead on the fleck of glitter in his hair and how the mean satisfaction it gave her.

Petyr hung her coat on the graceful, golden coatrack and led her deeper in.

"Is this all business, or would you care for a tour?" he asked.

"Maybe later."

She couldn't stop herself from raising her eyebrows at the main room. It was also dark: the walls painted a daring black that was offset by the enormous windows, large hanging light feature, and pristine pale floors. Tall mirrors hung on the exterior wall, making the room seem even bigger.

Again, Sansa was struck by how well Petyr blurred himself into the past, hiding his hard-scrabble origins with all the right trappings. She never would have guessed that he was born to some failed insurance agent in the Fingers, not when the ornate wall paneling hailed back to decadent kings and the large, colorful bookshelves spoke of intrepid explorers and the elegant leather sofa suggested gentleman enjoying their leisure.

"Care for anything?" Petyr asked.

"No, thank you."

Petyr smiled to himself, then settled on the sofa. He painted a terribly appealing picture of repose, crossing his legs and resting his arms casually on the back of the chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, and Sansa couldn't keep her eyes from trailing the veins all the way up his forearm. If he noticed her gaze, he had the grace not to say.

"What business would you like to discuss?" he asked.

"I…wanted to return this," Sansa said, pulling his handkerchief from her skirt pocket. It was folded and washed and maybe had even caught some of her perfume, which of course had been a complete accident.

"How thoughtful," Petyr said, taking it. She let go before their fingers could touch. Sansa half expected him to smell the fabric, but he merely gave it a considerate look and held it in his hand, already forgotten. Petyr knew a subtle play was better than a salacious one. "I'd begun to fear you were going to keep it. I do enjoy having a full set."

"I'd hate to inconvenience you."

Sansa walked over to his bookshelf, trailing a finger along the spines. She wondered if he'd read everything on it or if they were for show. Anything was possible with a man like Petyr.

A tiny, bitter part of her wanted to sweep the whole shelf to the floor, from the pristine leather-bounds to the delicate jade figurine to the carved bit of ivory in its case. She might have, if she thought it'd do anything, but that would only make her look like a temperamental child. Besides, while Petyr enjoyed his luxuries, he would never let them be used against him. He'd probably burn the whole place to the ground if it served a purpose.

"I'm deciding whether I want to stop seeing you," she told the room at large, picking up the jade figurine. She ran the point of her fingernail along the base, trying to make out the inscription.

"That's generous. You seemed quite hesitant before."

"I was hurt," she admitted, toying with the figurine between her palms. She thought it was a god from one of the countries in Essos—Braavos, maybe. "I was upset that all of my time, energy, and money was wasted."

She paused to look at him, weighing one of her more pressing doubts.

"You didn't show interest in me _because_ of Robb's bill, did you?"

"No, Sansa," he said evenly. "I first heard mention of it from you and suspected I should know what moral changes might be coming to the country. It wasn't hard to piece things together from what you told me."

She let out an unhappy laugh. Of course, he was right if she tilted her head far enough. If she'd watched her tongue, he wouldn't have tricked her, and if she'd watched his, she wouldn't have been so easily tricked. It had been a sloppy mistake to talk policy to Petyr, especially with her father's warnings in her ears. Though, it wasn't just Petyr she should have been cautious of. Sansa shouldn't have said anything around _any_ powerful or influential person, not with a bill so contentious. If she were smart, she would say only what was perfectly bland and harmless, because she wasn't Robb or her father. They could trust a man to be discreet with secrets because of a gentleman's honor, whereas she could trust a man to discredit her because she was a sweet girl, sure, but she should've known not to gossip.

"I appreciate your honesty," she said, smile as caustic as she liked, because Petyr wasn't going to reprimand her. He gave her that, at least. "It's certainly informative."

"I've always been honest with you, Sansa."

She looked at him for a long moment. "We both know the truth is too slippery in your hands for that to be entirely true."

He gave her this smile and half a shrug, like he was pleased she had _finally_ caught onto his clever little game. "But you agree with me."

"No, Petyr," Sansa said, voice gaining some of that northern frost the Starks knew so well. "No, I still think what you did was wrong, and in future we will try again, and in future I'll be sure you can't tamper with it."

"You have such a humanitarian compulsion."

"Don't you dare mock me, Petyr."

"Oh, I'd never do that," he said, voice playful but not insincere. "Humanitarianism has its uses, just like vice. But I find it a curious fit for your profession."

"And how's that?"

"You don't go into politics because you want to help people, Sansa, surely you know that by now. Not in Westerosially, not here in King's Landing. If you want to help people, you become a philanthropist, you raise money and you raise awareness and you raise hopes and at the end of the day, maybe something is better for it. But you chose politics," Petyr said, tilting his head like she was a very interesting creature indeed.

"Of course, I did," she said. Her family was a long line of politicians, this was what she'd spent all that time in college for, her mother couldn't run Robb's campaign by herself, not after Ned had died. And, sure, from the very beginning, she could have chosen something else. She could have gone on to business or law or even medicine, those were all very suitable options. But she didn't want to _be_ suitable, she wanted to be the first Stark woman, the first _woman_ to claim the title of 'kingmaker' because she was that much better at the job than everyone else.

"Of course, you did, because you know that you go into politics if you want to _change_ things."

If she wasn't so annoyed with him, she might have laughed.

"I don't see why I can't change things in a philanthropic vein," Sansa said.

Petyr smiled wide, like she had just proven something he'd long suspected. "So coming to me now is an act of philanthropy, then. Altruism."

She gave a noncommittal hum. "It doesn't help me to hold a grudge. It's far better for me to learn and remember."

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

Sansa watched him for a long moment. "You could have asked me. You could have spoken to me at _all_ about how the bill would affect you."

"I didn't think the Starks played favorites."

"I wouldn't have changed the law for you if that's what you're thinking. But you didn't have to go behind my back."

He looked at her, long and unmoving and cool. "Do you really think so?" he asked. He at least paid her the respect of not mocking the sentiment implied.

She didn't bother answering. They both knew it was moot—if he had said anything to her, she would have done everything in her power to keep him from screwing her family over, which meant he would have resorted to even more devious means to achieve his goals and then they'd be exactly where they were now: fighting over their jobs because they were both too good at them and they hated losing.

If their relationship weren't a secret, maybe it would have been different. If they'd had a normal business relationship, where everything was done in the daylight and typed in legally binding documents, it would have been different.

She stared across the room at Petyr, trying to imagine something precise and professional between them. Each meeting would be set up through secretaries and assistants, each interaction would be performed with the chaste barrier of a desk or a table or a telephone between them. No secrets, no opera, no lipstick-smudged kisses.

The tedium of it made her want to cry.

"This is a funny form of forgiveness, Sansa," he said softly.

"I don't know that it's forgiveness. I'm letting what you've done go, not giving you a blank check to do whatever you want in future."

"Is that all?"

"I suppose," she said, turning back to the bookshelf.

"Don't tell me you're pouting."

"I'm not," she said. She may have suffered vindictive moments, as evidenced by the spring-loaded package of glitter she'd sent to his office, but Sansa never _pouted._ It was an entirely unproductive use of emotion.

She replaced the figurine for a book, some classic treatise on political theory.

"I'm just reckoning with what it means to be involved with someone important," she said, flipping through the pages.

She'd read the book in college, and most of her class had complained that it wasn't really about political _theory,_ no tactics and plans and schemes but rather a narration of etiquette and decorum. Sansa hadn't bothered to correct them. Sometimes etiquette was all politics was, charming people and respecting customs and anticipating reactions based off of social convention. Somehow, she wasn't surprised it was on Petyr's shelf.

"I've known important people my whole life, but this…it's different," she murmured. "I didn't think there would be this many teething pains. Arrogant of me, I suppose. Or naïve."

She paused, considering him. Petyr hadn't shifted from his relaxed position, though his gaze was guarded.

"You told me exactly what you are, what it means to get what you want _,_ and I…" Sansa looked down, swallowing her bitterness. "I'd always considered myself to be quite smart."

"I thought I told you, Sansa. Never demean yourself for the sake of another."

"I'm not," she said, unable to deny a tiny smile. She closed the book and dropped it in an armchair. He watched her come closer, curious in spite of himself. "It's more…being humbled. What I was doing was good enough for where I was, but now…"

Sansa looked down at him, biting her lip as she thought of what to say. Petyr's eyes were untrusting, but they were also hungry, trailing down her body before flicking back to her face. Which was a little funny, really. She hadn't even dressed up.

He unfolded his legs and straightened. "But what, Sansa?"

She eyed him, knowing what he wanted, _hoped_. She took a deep breath. His gaze caught on her chest and the way her neckline moved when she inhaled, and this time he didn't make himself look away.

"There's so much I—I can't do alone," she whispered.

"So, what will you do?"

Sansa gave herself a moment of self-conscious doubt, then carefully, carefully sat on his lap. Petyr's eyes skated over her—chest, neck, and cheek, lazy and lusty and perfect. Sansa leaned in, mouth hovering near his for an uncertain moment before she finally kissed him.

He didn't kiss back, she barely caught the corner of his lips, but he _did_ turn toward her in encouragement.

"Tell me how you do it," she whispered, voice soft and pleading as she brushed her lips over his jaw.

Sansa traced the seam of his shirt with her fingers, careful not to catch him with her fingernails as she drifted across his shoulders and over his collar and down his front. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and she ever so slightly licked her lips.

"You're the only one who gets it, who gets what I'm trying to do. Everyone else is just chasing their own tails."

"I would have thought you too proud for such a thing," he replied dryly, clearly trying to show he wasn't affected. When she shifted her hips forward against him, though, his hands jumped to her waist.

"I'm never above being taught," she said, moving her hips again, slower, slower, slow. "Tell me what to do, Lord Baelish, teach me how to do better. I want to _be_ better, Lord Baelish—"

"Stop calling me that," he ground out, turning his face away.

"Petyr," she murmured in his ear, then again, _Petyr,_ her lips just barely brushing against his skin, _Petyr, s_ he kept rolling her hips, hands on his shoulders, _petyr petyr petyr_.

Sansa couldn't help a smile of satisfaction when he hardened beneath her, nor when he relented and kissed her neck. She let out half of a moan, which made him huff a tiny, satisfied breath.

Petyr pushed up her skirt, hands on her hips, the waistband of her underwear cutting a line along his palm. He guided her with his hands as he kissed her collarbones, grinding her against him.

"Petyr, I—" She leaned back slightly, a hot flush creeping up her neck and into her face. He looked at her, eyes dark and ravenous. "I don't—"

"What, Sansa?" he asked, voice rough enough to make her bite her lip again. He leaned forward and bit it for her, tongue tracing it from edge to edge, so she undid his belt and took him in her hand.

He let out a groan, maybe of satisfaction, maybe delight, she didn't really care. His hands were still on her hips, though they had loosened as he let her kiss him and touch him and show how much she needed him.

"You're so much cleverer than everyone else, this must be so _easy_ for you," Sansa told him, welcoming how unsteady her voice was. "Of course, you'd want to do this, of course, you'd want someone young and naïve and easy to use. Of course, you'd want some dumb little girl to tell you how wonderful you are."

Sansa dug her nails into him in a way she knew would hurt. Petyr sucked in a sharp breath, jerking beneath her. Sansa didn't bother hiding the meanness of her smile. It was almost insulting how _easily_ he believed she would accept what he'd done to her, like she'd gladly come crawling back to apologize for being in the way.

He gave her a look, turning his head ever so slightly, like he wanted her to think he thought this funny.

"Is this where you threaten me?" he asked, voice impressively cool, all things considered.

Sansa smiled, nice and sweet like everyone had made her practice.

"No, Petyr. We both know I can't honestly expect to cause you any lasting damage. And while I _could_ spend my life making you uncomfortable, I think there are better uses of my time."

"I could agree with that," he murmured, pulling her hand out of his pants and leaning in to kiss her.

Sansa slipped out of his grasp and got to her feet. Petyr gave her a surprised, almost betrayed look before his mask of cool amusement settled into place.

"I want you to know you're not infallible, Mr. Baelish. And I'm not interested in being a tool for you to use."

"So, this is just a tantrum, then?"

"Call it what you like," she called over her shoulder, already halfway to the hall.

Sansa left his very fine townhouse and his very lovely bookshelves and his very attentive mouth and just sat in her car for a moment. Despite her cool words and level voice, her heart was pounding in her chest. She half expecting to see the fabric of her shirt shaking from the strength of it. Sansa sighed and rested her forehead against the steering wheel.

She couldn't quite believe she had let it go so far. On one hand, how far was it _really,_ considering he'd already manage to make her come in public? On the other, she had not woken up thinking this was how her day would end.

Except, that wasn't quite right, was it? It wasn't like she had ended up at Petyr's door on accident or because she was compelled by his animal magnetism or something stupid like that. She had washed the handkerchief and she had asked for his address and she had applied press-on stiletto nails to make sure he would quite literally get the point. Sansa had even gone so far as to give herself a manicure the day before so she wouldn't walk in smelling of nail polish and give the game away.

She had come to say the things she needed to say—no, he was wrong, yes, she was also wrong, well, maybe it wasn't wrong for her to stay—but there was more to it than that. She had needed to prove to him that she wouldn't accept his cruelty. She had needed to prove to herself that no matter how angry he'd known she was, no matter how clever, no matter how bad an idea it was to let her through his front door, Petyr had done it because he was horny and he couldn't resist having her there.

Sansa moved to bite her nail, then caught herself when she remembered it was a press on. She would need to take those off before work tomorrow, else the office would talk.

She had enjoyed herself, she had to admit. Maybe not _enjoyed_ it, but there had been something deeply satisfying in walking into Petyr Baelish's house and taunting him with her very existence.

Sansa's whole life had been a long stream of men telling her what they wanted and doing what they wanted and touching her how they wanted. But this time it hadn't been like that. She'd done the telling and the doing and even the touching. The thrill of it buzzed in her fingertips. She could get drunk on that sense of power, she knew. Plenty of men had, and that was usually when things turned out very, very wrong.

Sansa sat up straight, shaking her head, telling herself to not get muddied by the past.

She had told Petyr that she was deciding whether she would stop seeing him, and the answer was no. No, she didn't want to stop seeing him, stupid as it was, _dangerous_ as it was. He was the only one that would let her do anything half so blunt, so devious, and she was sick to death of pretending every second of every day that she was something _less._ He may have been crooked, but Petyr never asked her to be anything less.

Besides—and this was the important part, the part that made it feel truly worth the risk—this wasn't just her playing make believe. It wasn't just Sansa that felt her heart skip when he touched her. It wasn't just Sansa that wished for his witty remarks when he was gone.

 _You're not infallible,_ she had said, because it was true. Petyr may have been resourceful and wealthy and clever, but he felt the same helpless pull as her. Not just because she was young and pretty and _there,_ otherwise why would he have bothered to put in so much _effort_? Why would he advise her on what to do with Cersei, why would he have looked so disappointed in his office when she hadn't done her due diligence, why would he seem so pleased when she called him out for his cunning? He liked her because he liked _her_ , and Sansa just had to hope he wouldn't throw her away now that she knew it.

So that was the trick, then. She would keep doing this and she would put away her high-minded, Starkly ideals. If she'd learned nothing else over the last couple of weeks, it was that doing things right did not actually mean she would win. And she wanted to win. She was owed it, after so long spent shoveling through other people's shit.

She turned on the car and pulled away from the street. She would savor this victory or declaration or continuation at least until she reached home, then it would be business once again. And after she had readied for bed, maybe she would savor the fact that Petyr had probably had to choose between masturbating in the handkerchief she'd left him or let her ruin his whole night.

Sansa didn't have a vindictive _streak,_ necessarily, but she certainly had her moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is jon training to become a monk a thing in modern aus? has anyone else done this? if not, why? is anything more perfect than jon snow learning to be a warrior monk in this modern day and age?


	7. a bit at a time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the me from chapter two that was nervous about describing clothes is dead. long live fashion porn me.

There was something appealing about going to one of these stupid events angry. Not overtly, not recklessly, but Sansa had a simmering layer of 'pissed off' beneath her smile and obsidian jumpsuit. Robb certainly noticed, as he sent her a ' _is everything alright?'_ look as they climbed out of the car.

She sent him a winning smile and walked in. Her hair was flat-iron smooth, her eyeliner had two sharp wings, and her heels were a nonconfrontational shade of pink. She wanted people to look at her and know she absolutely _would_ burn this building to the ground, except her mother had taught her better than that.

This event, the annual benefit for poor, hungry school children, was Sansa's least favorite of the entire year. It was one of those easy, gimme events where a politician could show up, get shitfaced, harass a few interns, and still get credit for being snapped in front of a banner begging people to feed orphans. The smart ones could ride that for half a year.

It was a good cause, of course, but Sansa resented how little effort the attendees put in to actually help it along. Not to mention that every year without fail it managed to be horribly and blatantly sexist.

It was something about the founders of the NPO that sponsored it, they always managed to seed in a well-meaning but ultimately insulting bit of chauvinism that everyone wrote off as fun. Last year, the women had actually been required to bake cakes for the all-male donors to try. The only way Sansa had survived was by flavoring her frosting with chiles and looking Ilyn Payne in the eye as he ate it.

Thus, the lethal black jumpsuit and the strappy pink heels. Thus, the fine dusting of anger. Sansa only wanted to be there for an hour before she faked an emergency and left. If Robb knew her at all, he would be prepared to tackle this thing alone.

The hall was big and airy, the walls made of huge panes of glass that showed off the city's exquisite architecture. In the middle of the main room was a grand water feature with plenty of stone and real plants, to give the building that naturalistic charm. The people inside milled about, laughing and sipping their drinks and trying to be heard over the string quartet. Sansa tried not to be separated from Robb. This was the last event of the season, which meant everyone would be there, which meant she had to play nice with every bastard she hated or else. Any show of bad manners on her part would reflect on Robb, and that would just grind salt in the wound of his recent failure, and it made Sansa so angry she had to be there and couldn't be her own person—

"Careful, keep that up and you'll get a wrinkle."

Sansa turned to find Margaery, sipping champagne and looking radiant in a lovely white cocktail dress with a diamond cutout on the back. She and Loras had appeared out of nowhere, still dazzling and sun-kissed from their summer in Highgarden. Loras and Robb were chatting about polo or golf or some hobby men usually had.

"Bold choice, wearing something that can stain," Sansa said, touching her shoulder. Tiny intricate roses were beaded all across the bodice, only visible when the light caught them.

"As is coming here looking like a business exec who made time to bury her husband over lunch."

Sansa shot her a look but couldn't help a smile. She had known Margaery in college, but they hadn't become friends until they graduated and were forced to tackle King Landing's social scene.

"I do like the shoes, though," Margaery noted, dipping her champagne glass toward Sansa's feet. "Nothing terrifies a man like a woman taller than him. And, seriously, that jumpsuit makes you look ready to castrate a man before noon, so well done."

"It's not that extreme," she said, waving a delicate hand. She had deliberately put a blazer on to hide that her jumpsuit had no back, because while she _did_ want to complicate the sweet Sansa image, she didn't want to completely eviscerate it. "Besides, we can't all be tiny and lovely."

"No, you cannot," she said, giving a cat's satisfied smirk at the crowd. "But you might want to ease up on the scowling. Gives away who you're mad at."

"But he's not even—" Sansa began, then caught herself. She smiled at Margaery and raised an eyebrow. "Good try, but my business is staying my own today."

"It was worth a shot. But seriously," Margaery said, giving Sansa a gentle poke. "Make him miserable you're not with him, not terrified you're going to slit his throat."

 _He could do with a dose of fear,_ Sansa thought, selecting a tiny mushroom tart from a tray.

But Margaery had a point. Sansa was angry, yes, but she couldn't let that show. She had to be pristine and lovely and charming, because bucking expectations now served no purpose but to make people upset. It would be far easier to slice the reins a bit at a time.

She laughed and smiled and talked with the best of them. And, if she was being fair, it wasn't that bad. While there were plenty of people that weren't her favorite at the fundraiser, there wasn't anyone with _actual_ poison in their veins.

The Lannisters had sent sparkling Jaime and one of the lesser cousins, who were easy enough to avoid. Jaime wasn't interested in holding grudges when he personally hadn't been wounded, and he was content to let all drama involving his nephew fade from sight. And while civility demanded she and Robb say hello to Roose Bolton because he'd been a Stark supporter for years, she was able to fake being called away by someone a few moments in. Thankfully, he'd left his bastard son home for this one, or she'd have Ramsay stalking her the whole afternoon.

As for Petyr, Sansa carefully tracked him across the room and made sure she was on the other side of it. She wasn't sure if she could keep herself from pouring her drink on him, just to remind him that she could. Best not to find out, especially when he looked so dashing in his onyx suit and burgundy dress shirt.

By the time Robb excused himself to the bathroom, Sansa wasn't feeling quite so murderous. A stray charitable thought even crept in once or twice, and the catering was _phenomenal._

"I must say, the Starks are positively radiant this afternoon."

She jumped and turned to see Varys. He was sporting a pale linen suit today, as well as a pleasant smile that hid a thousand secrets. For variety, he wore a lavender pocket square that Sansa had to admit she found cute.

"Varys," she said, pulling out a smile of her own. "You keep surprising me. I didn't know you were such a social creature."

"One must be, from time to time. Tell me, how did you like the rest of the opera?"

"Oh, it was wonderful," she said. She fought to keep her smile clear and pure and free of Petyr's fingerprints.

Varys raised his eyebrows. "Now _I_ must admit to being surprised. I didn't think you'd like the unhappy ending."

"Right, no, that was tragic," she backpedaled, she'd forgotten the opera was a tragedy, she barely even remembered how it ended, _shit,_ "but the performances were superb."

"Just so. I also thought your brother's performance was quite admirable, though I regret that he had an unhappy ending as well."

"Ah. Yes. Yes, we're all a little heartsore over that."

"It's a true shame," Varys said, voice a little lower, a little more sincere. "His bill would have shaped the country. Shame some people put a profit margin first."

"Yes, well, you can't always predict these things," she murmured, thinking sourly that Petyr _had_ been wrong, her bill hadn't been so pathetic that it wouldn't stand the vetting process. Then she paused. Sansa looked at Varys, feeling both clever and foolish.

"You knew at the opera."

"About what?"

"About Petyr, what he—" She caught herself, flashed a smile. "You saw the potential ramifications."

"I was perhaps aware of the fuller field," he said with a delicate sigh.

"It seems I should have listened to you more closely."

"Most should, but no one can blame you. He's a clever man, I'll give him that."

"He said you played a lot of chess together."

Varys laughed at that, mouth quirking to the side like her joke tasted of lemon. "Yes, we play quite the game, though I, at least, try to avoid making personal moves."

"Oh, but those are the best kind," she murmured into her champagne flute, then swallowed her words with another flawless smile. "That's what I'm told, at least. I haven't had much of a chance to play."

"Shame," he said, giving her a thoughtful, sideways look. "I suspect you would be quite good."

Sansa opened her mouth to respond, but someone behind them called her name. She turned, spotting some aide or intern or assistant she guessed had helped set up the fundraiser.

"We're taking the picture of all the top donors and advocates now. If you could just follow me…"

"I don't envy you, Miss Stark. The best part of my job is not having to do publicity," Varys mused, making her smile as she bid him farewell.

Sansa threaded through the crowd to where the photographer was set up. They had cordoned off a swathe of the main room in front of the impressive fountain so no one milled into view, though a cluster of onlookers had gathered behind the camera. Robb was already there, trying not to look bored as the photographer tried to wrangle a slew of politicians and socialites into order.

Sansa only had to listen for a few seconds before her simmering annoyance returned. The theme of the photo was retro glam, or, in other words, the men looking masculine and powerful while a woman perched on their knee.

Robb caught her look before she covered it up.

"I know, I already said something," he muttered. "They laughed and said I was being modest."

Sansa ground her teeth into a smile to keep from modestly shoving a chair down their throats.

It wasn't the most organized photoshoot she'd ever been to. No one seemed to have a clear count of how many people were supposed to be there—one had stayed home sick, no, he'd been seen coming out of the bathrooms, actually, hadn't he gone down to Dorne for a couple weeks with a few friends?—so chairs kept being added and removed and people shuffled around. Sansa wasn't entirely certain why she had been called over, since she would only be representing Robb, and he was already here. It didn't help that Petyr was in the group of donors and she had to doggedly keep her eyes from lingering. It became much harder when she felt his gaze caress her skin.

Sansa stood there, becoming increasingly bad tempered for five minutes, debating whether she could in good conscience abandon Robb to the tedium. Then Robb was finally called over to the group, positioned this way and that and made to look powerful and youthful and strong.

There was something truly mind-numbing about watching men in similar looking suits swap order according to how the camera would like them best, while the girls meant to be in the photo tittered in the background. She didn't even recognize half of them, and most were around her age if not younger. Sansa didn't know how anyone thought these women were anything but props.

And then, of course, someone did a count of the women and they were suddenly one person short.

Sansa drew in a slow, deep breath, resentment calcifying as she felt the photographer pause and look her over. She cut him a cool look, making full use of the fact that she was taller than him. He hummed to himself, eyebrows pinched, then finally shook his head.

"Do you mind being in the picture? We're losing light and I'm sure we'd all like to finish this up. It's fine that you're in pants, no one will even notice."

She wrung out one last damn smile and nodded. There were too many important people there for her to kick up a fuss.

"Of course, although I was planning to leave soon."

"No, right, we'll have you out of here in ten," the man promised, leading her over to the group. They stopped before Robb, and he left to juggle a few more things. Sansa and Robb had just enough time to exchange a doubtful look before the man zipped back.

"Wait, no, that's your sister, isn't it? We can't have her sit on your knee _,_ " he said, becoming increasingly flustered when a few of the surrounding people laughed.

Sansa grit her teeth, face heating from annoyance and embarrassment as everyone stared at her standing awkwardly in front of her brother. They realized the sexual implications when _siblings_ were involved, but not when it was a slew of young pretty interns and the old men they served.

She was so, so tired of this.

"No, let's…hold on…okay, why don't you swap with chair two?"

She didn't even have to look. Chair two was Petyr and Sansa was going to commit a violent crime by the time she left.

"Okay, if it'll help the picture," Sansa said, and tried not to stalk over to chair two. Petyr had the good grace not to smirk at her as she stood behind his chair.

This was probably punishment for the petty thought about the interns.

Then the photographer was telling everyone to sit and Sansa had no choice. But if she was going to do this, she might as well black a few eyes while she did.

Rather than give Petyr the satisfaction of awkwardly perching on the utmost edge of his knee, Sansa sat high on his lap. Then she made a production of looking around to compare her position to everyone else, then wriggled a little more to settle into place.

"That's quite the show," Petyr muttered, low enough that their neighbors couldn't hear. Both men were busy talking to someone else in the shoot, blissfully unaware of Petyr and Sansa. "Sure it's not for my benefit?"

"Mm, you're the one that has to deal with standing up later," she said, gaze fixed on the photographer like she didn't have much time for Petyr and the things he said.

Despite everything, his manners were still flawless. His hands were kept respectfully away from her person, and he managed not to breathe on her neck, which was a problem a few of the other girls in the shoot were having. All she could think of, though, was the memory of his hands on her hips, making her grind against him harder, the fingertips digging into her skin, promising to drag away her underwear.

"This seems to be a theme with you," Petyr said, voice still low. "I seem to remember you being quite interested yourself."

She finally looked at him and gave him the sweetest smile she could muster. "I won't be the dirty old man that got an erection when an innocent girl was forced to sit on his lap for a photoshoot, though, Petyr."

"Not so old," he said mildly, gaze drifting on. "But stop moving."

Sansa made a final, spiteful little squirm, then focused on staring at the photographer hard enough for him to catch the hint. She had missed the smell of Petyr's cologne, and now it was denting her anger with sadness.

"How's the picture coming?" Renly Baratheon had stopped behind the photographer and was looking them over. He was a surprising face to see around King's Landing, much less a fundraiser like this. He'd held a few important positions over the years, but after Robert had died, Renly preferred to leave the heavy lifting to Stannis. Apparently, Robert's passing made him realize that the good die young and the pleasure seekers die interesting, so he had changed his focus to filling his life with the most enjoyable things possible. Renly wasn't bad company, per se, but Sansa didn't like to waste time on people that looked at the world and only saw themselves.

Renly frowned at the display, then turned to the photographer. "It's a bit lopsided, don't you think? A little… _good ole boy_?"

The photographer stammered that he hadn't come up with the concept, and Sansa was just beginning to hope _someone_ had sense when Renly broke into a wide grin.

"No, we need some representation of female strength. Here— _Brienne!_ Stop talking to Lannister and come over here—right. Just plunk her down in the middle and have a guy sit on her knee."

"But it's a photo for the people that helped put this fundraiser together," one of the men in line grumbled.

" _Right_ , and she'll represent me like Davos is for my brother. I donated plenty, that's not a problem. And besides, we've got two Starks here, we can have two Baratheons."

"I'm going to set this place on fire," Sansa said under her breath, which made Petyr chuckle.

"Let me know when, I'd love to watch."

Brienne slunk over from where Jaime Lannister seemed to have cornered her into conversation. She looked doubtful when Renly explained the plan. Brienne had worked closely under him in the Office of Defense and wasn't much one for these sorts of parties. She had cleaned up nicely, though, in her navy pantsuit and Oxfords. To Sansa's utter delight, Brienne's shoes had the tiniest bit of an extra heel.

It took some convincing, but then the chairs were once again reshuffled and Brienne was placed in the middle and some somebody was produced to sit on her knee. Then the last second adjustments were made and the photographer _finally_ started taking pictures.

Petyr took hold of her waist and Sansa begrudgingly settled her hand against his shoulder. She smiled and waited and shifted and looked pretty like the photographer said. And it wasn't _horrible_. She didn't like it, but it wasn't the worst thing in her week.

"I have to admit, I'm disappointed that _now_ you've forgone a dress," Petyr said quietly as the photographer adjusted a light.

"That was the point," she muttered. "I didn't trust you not to drag me into a back hallway or something."

"That doesn't sound too bad, actually."

Sansa pinched his side beneath his suit jacket for his efforts. He caught her wrist, but he was smothering a chuckle instead of a look of annoyance.

"Besides, I'm not the one you need to worry about," he told her.

Sansa gave him a look, to which Petyr nodded over her shoulder. She turned and leaned forward, peering around everyone to see Robb. She hadn't paid much attention to him since he was at the far end of the line, but he seemed to be having a better time than her. He was transfixed by the girl sitting in his lap, who was talking animatedly with her hands.

"Who's that?" Sansa asked.

"Talisa Maegyr. Is that a problem?"

"I don't know yet," she murmured. The name rattled around her head, innocent enough but carrying a smack of warning. She wanted to say the Maegyrs were activists, but she wasn't certain, and she didn't want to admit her ignorance to Petyr.

Then it was their turn for individual portraits, and Sansa pulled on her most winning smile.

"It's not all a loss, though, Mr. Baelish," she said, once the photographer had moved on to the next pair.

"Oh?"

"My jumpsuit doesn't have a back," she told him quietly, adjusting her blazer so he could see the barest flash of her skin.

He smiled to tell her he wouldn't be so easily provoked. "That's not overly special."

"Yes, but I chose to match the bottom with the top," she murmured in his ear, then stood and walked over to her brother. She didn't look back, preferring to imagine his expression at the suggestion that she had foregone underwear.

She hadn't, of course, but it was the tease that counted.

Along the way, she paused to touch Brienne on the arm.

"You look lovely," Sansa said, hoping Brienne read the sincerity in her face.

"Oh, I don't know, this…" She gestured awkwardly at the group. "This isn't exactly what you'd call my field of expertise. I'm less comfortable in a photoshoot than a shooting range."

"No, these things are always awful," Sansa agreed. "But it was nice to not have _every_ woman involved be a prop."

Brienne blinked, then gave a tiny, uncertain smile. Sansa would have liked to stay and talk more, but she saw Jaime closing in and decided to spare herself a headache or three by saying good-bye.

She found Robb and dragged him from the lovely Talisa. She had nothing against the girl, Sansa just knew he would stay and be dazzled by her all week if he could, and Sansa was tired and annoyed and lonely and just wanted to go home. Also, she had the vague impression the Maegyrs were less gentle-bring-public-awareness activism and more rabid-lambast-elected-officials activism, and she didn't need that disaster just now.

"That wasn't a great photoshoot," Robb said after a few minutes of silent driving.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"I was just making conversation," he said defensively. "What was I supposed to do, ignore the woman on my lap?"

"It's fine, I wasn't criticizing," she sighed. "What's she do?"

"Her family are activists," he said, which just made Sansa's stomach clench. "They're focused on educating children from low-income families on easily accessible nutrition."

"Right, so this fundraiser would be important to her, right."

He paused, letting the radio hum away before saying, "I know it must have been awkward for you. You didn't even want to be in it, him being older, and after everything…"

Sansa closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the window. "They were all older, Robb. You were the youngest man there, before they found someone for Brienne. It's the territory of being objectified."

"I'm sorry."

"That's the price of business." She gave him a thin smile, wishing she were already in bed. She kept hearing Petyr's sharp little inhale at the possibility of her not wearing underwear. She kept missing the heat of his hands against her. She kept wishing he'd been able to kiss her, to pull off her blazer and run his mouth up her spine until he reached the ties at her neck and pulled them free with his teeth.

"I'm sorry," Robb repeated.

"Well, we just have to get into power, then we can change it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is very important to both the story and to me. it doesn't have the production of the others, but it touches on a lot of subjects that are integral to sansa's development as a person.


	8. birds of a feather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talisa here is going to be a fun hybrid of her character from the books, show, and a dash of what I've made up.
> 
> (also I mention an 'unholy alliance suit' in this chapter, which is not really a thing in the real world but it sure is in westeros someone please ask me about my fantasy political systems I'm dying to talk about my fantasy political systems)

When Sansa climbed out of her car and walked to Petyr's door, it smelled of late summer rain. The beauty of the day made her angry, salting the wounds of the morning. The air had been so thick back at the office that she'd texted Petyr against all her better judgement, desperate for any form of escape. Sansa had been only too eager to fly over at his invitation. She was trading a traitor for a traitor and at this point, she didn't care.

The routine was familiar enough the second time around—take off her coat, shiver, walk the long sleek hallway as it filled with the clatter of their footsteps and she tried so terribly hard not to let her gaze run down his whole body.

Petyr lead her through the large living room this time, taking her to the doorway in the back corner. Sansa blinked in surprise as he showed her into the kitchen, a charming thing that tried to look quaint despite the expensive, stainless-steel appliances.

"Care for a drink?" he asked. "I have a few wines I think you'll like."

"Sorry, I don't do alcohol," she said easily. She casually picked up a clementine from the fruit bowl, ignoring the look he gave her.

"I'm surprised you're not at work," Sansa said, peeling the skin in a long, thin spiral.

"I could say the same for you," he countered. He leaned his hip against the countertop, a black granite that looked like he had captured the night skies and had them fixed into place for the fun of it. "I, at least, make my hours."

"Oh, it's a complete dead zone for at least two weeks once the voting's done. No more parties, no more plans." Except, of course, a betrayal or two, but she had come here to forget about that. "Everyone's too burned out to return the calls of a politician who tripped over his own shoelaces right in front of the finish line."

"I can't say I'm enjoying your tone."

"Shame."

Sansa pointedly dropped her peel on the counter. Petyr gave her a long look, then picked it up and dropped it into a discreet trash can. He wasn't so dressed up today, wearing just slacks and shirtsleeves. His belt buckle, she noticed, matched his cufflinks because of course they did.

"You're in quite the mood," he said.

"Wonder why," she said blandly, moving to the opposite counter and hopping up onto it.

"I'd thought we'd gotten over this."

"What, because you got another lap dance for free?"

"That was unkind, by the way," Petyr told her. "Though not quite what I'd call a lap dance."

"Don't tell me you _did_ get an erection," she said, unable to stifle her smirk. She popped a section of clementine into her mouth as he moved over.

" _No,_ despite your best efforts." He leaned against the counter beside her. Sansa tried to ignore the heat of him against her hip. "I thought of you all day, though. Did you?"

Sansa kept her focus on the clementine as she picked an extra bit of pith from the fruit. She _had_ thought of Petyr all day, tragically. Of course, she had thought about him in his burgundy dress shirt, whispering so soft into her ear, but that was her libido speaking and she didn't have to act on that. But in the days afterward she had wanted to ask him what he thought of this business with Robb and Talisa. Talisa wasn't a problem in and of herself, she was by all accounts kind and well-educated and perfectly respectable. Her father, though, was a bit of a radical and had openly decried several policies the Starks supported. One such incident had involved him and his followers forcibly taking a newspaper over for a day and publishing inflammatory propaganda.

Talisa, though, lovely, lovely Talisa was more moderate and gentle and pretty and alluring than her family, but that didn't change the fact she was incredibly, _incredibly_ dangerous to Robb's already compromised situation. And, because the Stark luck was absolute dog shit, he was completely smitten. Robb was subtle enough that maybe no one but her had noticed, but Sansa saw the little things. She saw how much time he was spending on his phone, lately, how he randomly rushed out of the office to 'attend something that came up', how he never seemed able to return her calls at night.

Sansa wanted to lock him in a room and yell at him until he realized that he could _not_ start dating a radical's daughter, no matter how kind and engaging she may be. Which just made her feel like an enormous hypocrite. How could she tell him anything when she had happily let Petyr fill the unseen spaces in her life for _months?_ How could she tell Robb to leave the girl when she was sitting next to Petyr in his kitchen?

And then there was the softer, more sisterly side of her that hoped maybe he'd found someone to comfort him after all of these repeated blows.

But she couldn't tell Petyr all that.

"I see you've left your claws at home today," he murmured. He slid his hand beneath hers to examine her nails, which were short and rounded and painted an elegant shade of mauve.

"Oh, but I sharpened by teeth instead," she told him, flashing a lean smile.

"And your tongue, it seems."

"That's always sharp, Petyr." She ate another section of clementine as he looked her over, daring him to call her impolite or rebellious or any of those delightfully condemning words.

"What's happened, Sansa?" he asked softly.

She blinked, her icy armor chipping.

Was her unhappiness that palpable? If anyone looked at her, her mother, her brother, a stranger, anyone, could they see the most recent bit of bad news? Or was this just Petyr's special trick, did he alone know her so well?

"Aside from the obvious, you being you, me being me," she said, hoping to cover her surprise with another jab.

"Naturally."

Sansa drew in a long, slow breath. All she could smell was the edges of his cologne and wafts of citrus, begging her to let go of her worries and enjoy the moment, enjoy the food, enjoy him.

It would have been much, much easier to kiss him and let him taste her anger and then leave when she was done. He probably wouldn't mind it. They could use each other and not think twice and then that would be the game—see who could use the other the most and the quickest all while having quite excellent sex.

The thought left her cold and lonely.

Sansa shook her head, eating another section of clementine. When she finished, she said, "I don't think I can talk to you without fearing for everything I've said."

He shifted beside her, expression level. Sansa looked him head on, giddy in a bad way. Nauseous, she might call it. She could play that game of ice and secrets, she might even become so good at it that she stopped getting frostbite. But she didn't want to be secretive and cool. She wanted warmth and trust. She wanted to never have to question whether they were on the same side.

"I miss talking to you," she admitted. "I miss how it used to be."

She missed how easy it had been. Oh, they had battled back and forth with words and kisses and the occasional covert touch, but she'd never had to _work_ to be around Petyr. He was satisfied with her as she was, she was good enough for him as she was. Her tone had been mocking when she'd said it, _you're the only one who gets it, who gets what I'm trying to do,_ but the words had been true. He had never had to ask her _why_ she wanted to do something, only _how._ She never had to justify herself to him.

"Well, then it's just a matter of us going back to that, then," he said, voice low and measured like things were that easy.

"And how do we do that?" she asked, almost scoffing as she looked at him.

" _Well,"_ he began, reaching for her clementine. Sansa snatched her hands away, holding them out of reach until he gave her a wry smile and pulled back. "You could start by not acting out on me because you're angry at something else."

Sansa considered him a long moment, toying with the remaining half of her clementine. She stood by her actions the last time she'd been here, but maybe she'd been petty at the fundraiser. Overly combative, even. And now, if she was keeping count.

"Just like you can't use me or my family as tools?"

Petyr considered her as she had done him, then nodded. "Yes, just like."

He pushed himself away from the counter and stood in front of her, commanding her attention.

"You asked me a while back," he began carefully, "what your pain brought me."

"Plenty of clever little friends," she said, unsurprised when she sounded flippant instead of bitter. That was another thing he had been right about—the Starks had recovered. The pain of the loss had lessened over the days, and now she was left with steely experience. Not that she'd admit it to him.

His smile was thin. "Friends, yes, but fair-weather scoundrels at best. Not anything someone would want to keep." He set his hands very carefully on her knees, touching her only with his fingertips.

She tilted her head, trying to keep her gaze cool. "And you want to keep me?"

"I'd certainly welcome it if you chose to stay."

"You speak like you're not a scoundrel yourself."

"But I'm a scoundrel that still wants to know what's on your mind," he said softly, tracing his fingers ever so slowly up her thighs. "Talk to me, Sansa."

"My mother warned me never to speak to scoundrels," Sansa said, which was true but also a path to a very boring life. "You'd have to be very well behaved to prove her wrong."

"Oh," he murmured, hands halfway to her hip, "the very best."

Sansa considered a moment, then let him press between her legs. Petyr didn't kiss her or caress her or anything remotely scandalous, he just stayed close, their heads nearly level.

"I'm not ready to talk about it," she told him, voice low. "I will, but now it just…I don't want to think about it."

She hoped she didn't sound like defeat.

He looked at her, thinking a great many things, then gave a slow nod. Sansa held up the last section of clementine in thanks and he ate it out of her hand, teeth catching her fingers.

They looked at each other for a long moment before Petyr took hold of her hips and slid her forward.

"Come here, there are better ways to talk."

"Come _where_?" she asked suspiciously, letting him pull her off the counter. He led her by the hand back into the living room. He left her standing next to the sofa and one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Petyr walked over the table nestled in the nook and took one of the straight-backed chairs from it. He walked back to Sansa and the mirror, sat down in the chair, then waved her closer.

"Come here," he repeated.

Sana hesitated, then stepped lose enough for him to take her hand. She raised an eyebrow as he tugged her closer, clearly wanting her to sit down.

"I thought you didn't like this."

"I don't like you trying to _punish_ me with it. Otherwise, I find it very desirable," he told her. "I thought we were trusting each other."

Sansa sat down, prim and polite like she had never had an impure thought so long as she lived. She ignored Petyr, instead adjusting her hair in the mirror.

"It's all about image, isn't it?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Isn't it?"

"Maybe," he whispered, leaning in so his mouth was right next to her ear. "Is this all for show?"

"I don't know what you mean." She tried to look innocently back at him, but Petyr caught her face ever so gently, turning her back to face the mirror.

"You're wearing a skirt again."

"It's pretty," she said, self-consciously smoothing her hand along its wide pleats.

"Very pretty."

Petyr's hands were on her hips, now, pulling her back against him. She wondered if maybe she should have put on a pencil skirt instead.

"Are you sure you only did it for me?"

" _To_ you, not _for_ you," she corrected, voice suitably crisp. He smiled at her over her shoulder, eyes dark and enticing.

"I've noticed a very interesting habit in you, Sansa," he said, easing his hands up, barely touching her through the fabric of her blouse. "You're very scared of losing control."

"No one's tried to take control from me except _you_ ," she said, turning her head to look at him.

"That's not true," he murmured, tracing long, swooping lines along her hipbones, her ribs, skating the bottom edge of her bra. Sansa swallowed, trying to remain aloof even as a shiver fought its way up her back. "I wonder, is that why you insist on strangling everything in your fist?"

"You're one to talk," she scoffed, trying to hide how her voice caught when he took proper hold of her breast with one hand, gently, gently, a thumb dipping into her bra through her shirt. She took hold of his wrist but didn't pull it away, just held him.

"See?" He sounded amused. "And besides, I know when I'm allowed to let go."

"That…caused problems for me, last time."

"Are you talking about the opera, or the dinner where you put your foot in my lap? Because you seemed to enjoy both."

Sansa twisted her hand roughly around his wrist, more to jar than to hurt.

Petyr laughed and pulled her hand away to kiss it. He was innocent at first, pressing his lips to her palm, and then he took her pinky into his mouth.

Sansa's heart beat faster as she watched him, his gaze lowered as he slowly drew her finger from his mouth. Then he looked up at her, eyes piercing even in the mirror.

"Let go, Sansa," he whispered in her ear. "Let go for me."

"And then what?" She bit her lip in spite of herself, his other hand back on her thigh.

" _Everything."_

He kissed her neck, teasing her with his teeth, though not hard enough to bruise. The hand on her leg was drawing up her skirt one fistful at a time, exposing the pale skin of her thigh. The air sneaking across her was almost cold, even though her face was hot, her hands were hot, everything was too many things at once.

Petyr took hold of her sides, firmer than before, petting her more than taking her clothes off. He kissed her shoulder and her neck and behind her ear, slow and burning, just in the way she liked. It annoyed a part of her that he knew her so well after, what, a few weeks and a handfuls of meetings, but the rest of her welcomed it, _needed_ it, needed to be touched and delighted and worshipped and adored.

Both his hands were on her breasts, caressing them, firmer now, enough to make her push back into his chest. She tried to keep her breathing steady, but with his hands on her chest he could feel every flicker, every breath, every flutter of pulse.

Sansa tried to take hold of one of his hands, but Petyr held her wrist, pulling it out of the way. He gave a little _'shh, shhhhh_ ' as he did, keeping hold of her with one hand as the other toyed with a nipple through her bra. An ugly thrill went through Sansa as she looked at herself in the mirror, her face flushed, her legs pale, her arm held off to the side, restrained, forced back, not allowed to move _or else_ as Petyr was allowed to paw at her.

She shook her head, leaning forward, breaking his grip on her wrist. "No—no, you can't—don't hold my—"

Sansa sat on his knees, a hand pressed to her face as she felt her heart clatter in her chest. She bit her cheek. It wasn't that bad. He hadn't been trying anything bad, she was fine. She hadn't thought she would react like that, not now, at least.

Petyr very gently touched her hip, making her look up. She hadn't seen his expression when she pulled away, but now it was cautious, waiting. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Sansa nodded.

"You—please don't hold my wrists like that. Don't—don't hold me down."

"Okay," he murmured, "sweetling, of course."

She let him pull her back against his chest, kissing her so softly on the neck. Sansa let out a long, slow breath, trying to relax.

"Can you keep her hands out of the way?" he asked.

She hesitantly nodded, placing them on his hips after a careful moment.

"And your feet," Petyr murmured, carefully, carefully sliding his hands down her thighs. She bit her cheek, then hooked her ankles around the legs of the chair. She wasn't brave enough to wrap them around him.

His breathing was deep but measured, and Sansa decided she liked the feel of him against her back. She could do this. Her heart was calming down, this was fine.

Petyr toyed along the inside of her thighs, riding her skirt up as an afterthought, skimming over the place her thigh joined her hips. Sansa clenched her teeth, feet pressing hard into the chair legs. He hooked his fingers into either side of her panties and asked her very politely to lift herself.

Sansa raised her hips enough for him to slide her panties down to her knees, then cautiously settled back onto his lap. He even thanked her for it.

Perfect manners, bottom to top.

Sansa looked at Petyr when he ran his finger so tantalizingly slow between her legs. She didn't need to see herself flush or moan or squirm when he teased her with the tip of his finger, didn't need to see how wet she had become. His eyes were dark and lusty, focused on his hands and her hips. He was hard beneath her, and he used his free hand to grind her against him, making his breath come faster.

Sansa clenched her fingers around his belt loops, trying not to buck when he slid his fingers inside her. His wrapped his arm around her, carefully first, to make sure she was okay, then firmer, pinning her against him.

Sansa bit her lip, wishing she could stop herself from moaning, wishing she didn't like this, didn't like _him_ as much as she did. She was still a little dizzy from relief—this was fine, they could do this, she had just felt a moment's irrational panic. And it was a little funny, wasn't it? A few minutes of conversation was all it took before she let him slip off her underwear. What was it she had thought to herself so proudly—that Petyr knew he should not let her near, but he was weak enough to do it anyway? She couldn't claim to be much better. Sansa knew he had razors in his fingers, but she still let him touch her.

Then again, he could probably say the same, she thought hysterically. She took full hold of his belt, now, unable to stop the harsh sound breaking from her lips as he pressed his thumb against her clit. She was no saint, just like he'd said. She lied and she preened and she kissed men she wasn't supposed to when they made her happy and blacked their eyes when they didn't.

No wonder they found each other so appealing, they were the same creature. Their jagged edges ran adjacent to each other, and when they lined up just right, they wouldn't be cut.

"I can feel you thinking," he said, voice low and thick.

"Don't tell me _you're_ not," she shot back, fighting a shudder when he pressed his mouth against the top of her spine, his goatee just barely scraping her skin.

"This isn't about me, Sansa."

"But it's always your rules."

He pulled his hand away and rested it on her thigh, as if to say, _'okay, then._ ' Sansa groaned in irritation and glared at him in the mirror.

"Yes?"

She turned her face into his neck. Sansa let go of his belt with one hand and pressed it to the back of his head, keeping him still as she kissed his jaw.

" _Petyr,_ " she whispered, barely there against his skin because she knew how much he liked the sound of his own name, especially when it came from her lips. She rolled her hips against him, making _him_ groan this time.

He had made a mess of her skirt, told her plenty of things she didn't want to hear, and now he made her beg. The least he could do was make it worthwhile.

She ground her hips against him slower, devastatingly aware of his cock pressing against her, _please Petyr,_ scraped her nails through his hair, slowly, slowly, pulling only just the once _Petyr,_ then ever so innocently nipped at his ear _, please_.

Petyr did not, in fact, disappoint.

Sansa slumped against him once he had finished, letting go of his belt and unhooking her ankles from the chair legs. She leaned her cheek against his neck, still panting.

"Get up," he told her softly, tapping her hip to get her attention. Sansa eased to her feet, then glanced back at him. He didn't say anything, just gave her that look that said he could eat her whole.

Sansa eased herself down to straddle him, kissing him long and languid as she undid his belt. He tasted like clementines and satisfaction.

Petyr let out a breath when she slipped her hand into his pants, giving the tiniest little shiver that made him delightfully human. He bit back a moan from the way she kissed him, the way she pressed against him, the way she touched him.

He took hold of her hips again, almost making Sansa grind against her hands as she stroked him. And then that wasn't enough, then his hands were in her hair as he kissed her harder, his breath hot against her skin, his lips finding her neck as he murmured for her to go faster, faster, more, always more.

And, just like she'd suspected, he moaned oh so prettily when she made him come.

He kissed her ear and jaw and chin, then leaned back, face lifted to the ceiling. His hand slipped from her hair to her shoulder as she leaned forward to kiss him again, soft, soft, soft.

Sansa didn't know if this was what trust looked like, or power, or if it was just a secret that would ruin them both. She knew liked it, though, against her better sense and sometimes even her best judgement. She knew she liked it enough to stay.

"Where are the tissues?" she asked him, leaning back. She'd made sure to have him come in her hand and didn't want her good work wasted by wiping it on their clothes.

He pointed by the couch, and she slid off his lap to clean herself up. Sansa might have been more delicate about it if she hadn't left a stain on his slacks and her underwear wasn't still on the floor.

"Water?" he called over her shoulder.

She nodded, not caring if he saw, then settled on the couch.

Petyr returned with two glasses of water and handed one to her. He sat next to her and casually pulled her foot onto his lap. Petyr watched her with caged interest, stroking his thumb just beneath her ankle.

"Feel better?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She scowled at him and sipped at her water. She knew what he was asking, though. _What brought you here, what's wrong?_

"Is this just us, now?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows like he was amused she'd be so candid after weeks of double talk and flirtation and sneaking. "And what is _this,_ sweetling?"

She rested her head against her hand. "Fighting. Kissing to make up later. Pretending nothing's real."

"We can tell the world, if it makes you feel better."

Sansa took a sip of water. She didn't want to do that for three reasons of unequal importance. Firstly, while she would enjoy the power of being able to walk into a room with Petyr on her arm, there was something wickedly delectable about knowing something no one else did. Secondly, she couldn't publicly announce their relationship until she decided how to handle Robb and Talisa. Thirdly, she wasn't sure what the ramifications would be for openly associating with Petyr Baelish. Before, Sansa had worried that he would be painted with a predacious brush, but now she had to contend with him being a merchant of vice.

The memory of Cersei's barbs flashed in her head, _I'm not the one involved with a man that lives in a brothel._ Sansa couldn't help the sour twist of her mouth, because it was yet another reminder that the truth had been right there and she'd been too negligent to find it. And because of course the first thing Cersei did with the truth was try to stab someone with it, the bitter bitch.

"I'm assuming that's a no," Petyr chuckled.

"I can't, not right now. Not after _you_ made Robb's bill sink," she said, digging her toes in just above his hip. He laughed and caught her ankle, setting her foot on his thigh where she couldn't do any damage.

He watched her for a long moment, hand shifting up to her shin. After a moment, he said, "That's not everything, though. That's not why you came here."

"No," she agreed.

Sansa weighed the truth as she looked at Petyr, torn between wanting to stay in that blissfully isolated moment and wanting revenge.

"The Boltons defected," she whispered, because he'd find out soon enough, if he didn't already know.

Petyr looked up at her, expression level. "Now why would they do that?"

Sansa shrugged, her smile thin. "Roose called us a bad bet."

Roose wasn't a minister, though he was important. He was a sponsor and an advocate and a regional chair and councilmember and a dozen other things, like most of the not-quite-parliamentary politicians in Westeros. His family had been major Stark supporters for years, even when her father had been young and first run for office. And then he had taken his influence and his money and decamped to the Lannisters.

Sansa didn't really believe in succumbing to intimidation, but the thought of the Boltons and the Lannisters together made her stomach clench. That was a few too many unfriendly faces in one room for her taste.

She looked at Petyr. "Did you already know about Roose?"

He gave her half a smile, one equally humorless. "I'd heard talk that he wasn't happy with your brother, but talk like that usually means a few fancy dinners and a handful of promises to keep him satisfied. I didn't think he was going to make a move against you."

"Mm." At least she wasn't the only one broadsided, this time. Roose had made the announcement to Robb this afternoon over an early lunch. Sansa suspected he'd only given them that much because he didn't want to chance the Starks filing an unholy alliance suit. "He said we were children playing at dress up, now that my father was dead."

"The vote probably didn't help any."

Sansa laughed, a thin, sickly sound. "He'd been backing Tywin since my father announced he was sick. The vote…it was just an excuse for the public."

Roose could justify himself by saying the Starks were hemorrhaging supporters and influence now that Ned's cult of personality was finished. Never mind that his departure would make that true.

"It doesn't make sense, though," Sansa sighed, bracing her head in her hand. "Why the _Lannisters_?"

"They're your main rival and, at the moment, one of the most powerful factions in Parliament."

"No, I know _that_ ," Sansa said, giving him a look. "But the Boltons wouldn't trust the Lannisters _now,_ not after they threw them to the wolves."

Literally. Cersei had been more than happy to offer Ramsay up on a platter to Ned. Roose was an opportunist, of course, but he liked his grudges as well as the next man.

"Now what made the Lannisters do that?" Petyr asked, very carefully, that cunning gleam returning to his eyes.

Sansa looked at him in surprise, a slight flush going up her cheeks. He was so terribly well connected that she had assumed he had already known or had guessed. The thought of explaining everything now, relaxed on his couch, barely starting to enjoy her afterglow, made her throat close, so she didn't. Sansa just shook her head.

"Not now, Petyr. I'll explain it to you later," she said, holding up a hand when he opened his mouth to protest, "but right now…I have to focus on them, first. I have to make sure they don't ruin _everything_ for me."

She had worked too hard for too long for these selfish savages to ruin her now.

She slumped back against the arm of the sofa, pushing both feet onto Petyr's lap. He put a hand on her shin, still watching her.

"What are you asking for, Sansa?" he asked after a long moment, other hand braced against his jaw. "Because you _do_ want something."

"Mm," she hummed, giving him a wry smile. "Just like you."

"Birds of a feather," he said, tipping his glass towards her in the echo of a toast.

"Birds of a feather."

Sansa considered him for a long moment, thinking, thinking, terrified to say it out loud. _Kingmaker, I want to be kingmaker._ But girls like her weren't allowed to be kingmakers, weren't allowed to be free agents, weren't allowed to do anything but sit and smile and suggest and support, weren't allowed to be anything but accent pieces on the knees of noteworthy men.

But here, in the den of a man who had constructed a new world for himself with his own hands, a man who saw her hunger and delighted in it, a man who always asked what she wanted and strove to give it to her…maybe she was safe. Others wouldn't be, of course, he was a wild animal with claws that liked to cut, but he had chosen her. He had drawn her blood and decided he didn't like the taste, and now he was offering to do anything for her in return.

She drew her feet back and sat upright, keeping his gaze. Her heart was hammering away in her chest, pulse tangible in her throat.

"I want to make Robb the most successful politician in Westeros," she whispered, the words starting out unimpressive and bland but growing in strength. "I want to make him prime minister one day, I want to make a dozen men prime minister. I want the Stark name to be revered, I want to finally—" The words caught on her desire, too flimsy and finite for what she wanted to say. Maybe she was giddy from the sex, maybe she was running away with herself, but Sansa wanted to shape the earth with her hands, wanted to bring men to their knees, wanted to shift the sun when it inconvenienced her, and she wanted to do it all without ever having a hair out of place. Not because she had to look pretty for someone else, but because she was too good to let herself be mussed.

"I want _more_ , Petyr," she admitted, voice breaking with the ache of it.

"And you think I can give that to you?"

"I think you can help me get it."

"That's an awfully suggestive thing to say for a Stark. It implies some very unwholesome behavior."

"I don't want to just _be wholesome._ I want to _win_."

Petyr smiled that broad and pleased and wonderfully ravenous smile of his. There was a hunger in it that could hollow out the world just for the sake of trying, and Sansa was thrilled to finally see it outside of her own face.

"I suppose I could help you," he murmured. "But only because you asked."

Sansa smiled to match his, knowing this was something jagged and slant about this victory. They were no saints, just as he'd said. They lied and they beguiled and they enjoyed the trick of doing it, but now, at least, they would do it together. Now, at least, they could appreciate how clever the other was without ever having to shed a drop of their own precious blood.

She should hate him, honor dictated it, but Sansa was coming to think victory was a much sweeter offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay, dark sansa has finally entered the story! I sure hope I don't forget about the groundwork I laid in this chapter over the season break and instead toss her into a plotline that completely invalidates sansa's transformation and leaves her to suffer even greater crimes than before! that would be terrible!


	9. a different kind of lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the deeper I get into this story, the more devastated I become that we didn't get quality sibling time with sansa and robb. I would have loved to see them grow up and be glorious and cunning together. george must have separated them because he knew they'd be too strong and they'd win in two books or less ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> cw: discussion of past non-graphic sexual assault

Sansa had decided she and Robb needed to spend more time together, so she had arranged for a family dinner once a week. Sometimes they cooked, sometimes they watched a movie and ate popcorn, sometimes they ordered takeout and tried not to bitch too much about their day. It didn't really matter. The point of the exercise was to keep them both out of trouble and to keep Robb from drifting out of reach.

Robb, in all his noble glory, sometimes got it in his head that he couldn't burden his family with his troubles, and therefore needed to isolate himself from them. Jon, too, held this annoyingly chivalrous habit, but Jon was in the North and not choking on a dicey political career.

Sansa didn't have time for Robb to brood and maybe make bad decisions, so she played on his big brother protectiveness and hinted that maybe she blamed herself for everything and might spiral if he left her alone. It wasn't the kindest lie she'd ever told, making Robb think she would make terrible decisions if he didn't personally hold her hand, but she could wryly admit resuming her affair with Petyr Baelish might actually qualify.

It wasn't turning out to be an especially great autumn for the Starks, and it had barely even begun.

"Any plans for the weekend?" Robb asked.

"Oh, no, just me," she said. "I'm trying to enjoy the peace and quiet before things start going crazy over the winter."

"Mm, when's Arya coming into town?"

"In a few weeks."

Arya had begun a very respectable athletic career while in college and had decided to compete full time. Her main interest was the biathlon, but she'd decided of late that she wanted to explore martial arts. She planned on attending a prestigious athletic camp in Dorne before the weather fully changed and had decided to stop in King's Landing for a few days to catch up with her siblings.

The girls hadn't been especially close growing up, but Sansa hadn't seen much of Arya over the last few years and missed her. Between that and the fact there was more room in Sansa's house than Robb's apartment, it had been decided Arya would stay with her while she was in town.

"We'll have to grab dinner or something together, make sure I don't miss her," Robb said, nodding at his plate of pasta like it was writing his words down.

"Mm. She'll be in town for your birthday, though, along with everyone else."

"That's true. I wish Jon could come, catch up with everyone."

"How is he?" Sansa asked. She always meant to call Jon, but she could never remember what day he was granted phone access, and besides, things had been busy for her and, well, he was living in a _monastery,_ how much could she be missing, anyways? Their uncle, Benjen, had laughingly told Sansa that the most thrilling thing in all his time at Castle Black was a ewe having quadruplets. Jon could catch her up on the news when she finally did call him…whenever. And as for catching Jon up…he would find out about Petyr along with everyone else when she told them…whenever.

"Oh, he's good. Too serious about everything, of course." Robb smiled when he spoke, though Sansa wasn't sure about the worried line between his eyebrows. But maybe that was just the light as he leaned over to pet Grey Wind.

Sansa nodded to herself, taking a sip of water. "What about you, what're your plans for the weekend?"

"Just dinner with a friend."

Talisa, then. Sansa wasn't sure if she found it sweet that he looked so labored over telling her a half-truth or if she was insulted he'd even thought about lying.

"Oh, that's nice," she said, idly pushing pasta around her plate. "Is it some place I should check out?"

"No, we're cooking."

Sansa took another drink so she didn't throw her fork at him in irritation. She was an avid proponent of innocent double talk, but there was something infuriating about Robb playing dumb when she knew he was absolutely going to nail Talisa before the two reached dessert.

Sansa ate a few more bites of food, then asked, "What do you want to do about the Boltons?"

He looked at her, expression politician-blank. " _Do_ about them?"

She set down her fork in annoyance. This wasn't how she'd expected her night to go. " _Yes,_ do about them. You can't just let them betray you like that and then skip off into Tywin's lap."

"I'm _not,_ but there's not exactly a lot I can do right now. He threw his money behind someone else, that's not a crime."

"He _stabbed_ you in the _back,_ he stabbed us _all_ in the back," Sansa said, trying very hard to keep her voice level. She could be magnanimous when they _weren't_ trying to destroy her family.

"Right, so now I should start a smear campaign against him in the North? Block every initiative and program he supports? Do you really think _that's_ going to help me at all, make people view me as anything _other_ than a petulant child?"

"You can't let this _stand,_ " Sansa said, staring at him in disbelief. "If _Roose Bolton_ gets to cut you like this, what's to stop all the rest? No one's going to think you're a child when you're defending your name."

"So now we heal our wounds by making others bleed, is that it?" he asked, his gaze all straight shoulders and stern mouth. He was young, yes, but he still looked like a general ready for war.

Sansa gave him a long, level look, thinking Petyr would find this all terribly, terribly funny.

"What's Mom say?" she asked.

Robb made a hard sound of annoyance and pushed up from the table. "I'm not doing this, we're not teenagers."

"I'm just asking, she has to know by now. What's she say, does she think this can go unchallenged?"

" _'Challenged'_ doesn't mean ' _cut his heart out'_ ," he called over his shoulder, carrying his plate to the sink.

"Why not?" Sansa asked, sharp and bold and utterly unafraid as she followed him. If she couldn't be honest in the safety of her brother's kitchen, then what was the damn point? "Haven't they done enough, Robb? Haven't we suffered _enough_?"

Robb looked back at her, mouth moving on from stern to grim. "The Boltons aren't plotting to personally destroy us, Sansa. It's just politics."

Sansa glared at him, hearing the ' _Ramsay isn't involved in this'_ in his words, which was a stupid thing to caution her against. She knew full well he wasn't. Ramsay was a rabid bear, too blood thirsty and erratic to make any clever schemes or long-term plans. Besides, if Sansa had even the _suspicion_ that his fingers were in this, she would have broken them with a hammer, Robb's approval be damned.

"Of course not, it's about _us,"_ she said coldly _._ "I meant what I said earlier. What message do you think this sends? The Boltons are terribly comfortable with cutting pieces off our back and I'm sick of it. I am _sick_ of mediocre men getting their way because all the rest believe in playing by the rules."

"Have you told Mom that yet?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. She pursed her lips, hating the taste of her own tactics. He gave her a little nod like ' _go ahead, I dare you._ '

"Should I _have_ to?" she shot back.

"Gods be _good,_ Sansa, what are you even saying?"

"I'm saying for _once,_ Robb, I would love for us to win."

"I do too, Sans, of course I do. But if we lose ourselves in the process, what's left?"

Sansa clenched her toes into the tile, viciously angry at Robb for refusing to understand and horribly hurt that he had just slapped her with their father's words.

_If we lose ourselves in the process, what's left?_

She could see his face even now, worn and wise as a weirwood, smiling slightly as he put his hand on her hair. But even wise, steady Ned Stark hadn't been impervious to Roose's scheming, since the man had started siphoning away funds and friends the moment Ned had fallen ill. What good was nobility and honor when it didn't inspire loyalty? What use was wisdom when you didn't gain anything from it?

But Robb didn't want to hear that. She couldn't even _say_ that, not without sounding like she was spitting on their father's memory. And she wasn't, of course she wasn't. But Sansa had the fundamental character difference of thinking that if something didn't work like it should, maybe you needed a different tactic, not to do the same thing that much harder.

So Sansa carried her plate to the sink, rinsed it off, and very delicately placed it in the dishwasher. If Robb didn't see sense in the first minute of being yelled at, he never would. Much better to go along with him and chip away at his foundation over time.

Robb let out another hard scoff. "What, are you ignoring me now?"

"No. It's just that I disagree with you and don't think there's much more to be said on the subject."

" _No,_ don't do this to me, don't act like you're not pissed because I know you're gonna broadside me with something two weeks from now."

"No, I won—"

" _Won't_ you?"

Sansa looked at him head on, shoulders straight. He gestured for her to speak, earnest and mocking in that way only her siblings could manage.

 _"Fine._ I just think we could do something, _actually_ do something in this country if we stopped being surprised that other people cheat. We could be _breathtaking_ , Robb, if we make a stand now and show Roose Bolton and Tywin Lannister and every other cowardly bottom feeder and bully that we're still strong, we're still a credible threat, we're worth being _wary_ of."

"I've never wanted to inspire _fear,_ Sansa."

She shook her head. "You're going to need it. I'd rather our enemies be afraid of us than be amused."

She walked back to the dining room to clear the table. She didn't need to see Robb keep staring at her like she was strange and unknowable. She had been certain he would understand. Out of everyone, she thought he'd want to win the same way she did.

_Kingmaker, I want to be kingmaker. I want to make Robb prime minister._

She still did, of course, and she still thought he could do it better than anyone else, given growth and time. But if he didn't learn this lesson fast, she had the horrible feeling someone would cut his knees out from beneath him and he'd never have the chance to get back up.

"Was the vote that hard on you?" he asked, voice softer, gentler, more big brother than minister from the North.

Sansa let out a slow breath, annoyed that she could only be saying these things because she was hurt. "Maybe. Yes. It's been a shitty few weeks."

"I know, Sans." He was quiet for a few moments, then said, "I don't want to fight you."

"Right, no, I know."

"I just don't think meeting them on their level will work for us."

But she didn't want to meet them on their level. She wanted to exact justice for them sinking below the Stark standard in the first place. She still valued virtues like honor and respectability, but it seemed to Sansa that perhaps violating them deserved a touch of ruthless correction.

An awkward silence filled Robb's apartment. Grey Wind watched them with his sad, doggy eyes, like a child that had walked in to see their parents fighting. Sansa let out a short breath in irritation as she cleared the table. She wasn't about to be guilted by a _dog._

"How's your social life?" she asked, flattening the edges in her voice.

"Good, fine. I'm glad I can at least see people, now that things have calmed down."

"Mm, but you're lucky though," Sansa said, putting the drinks and salad dressing the fridge. "She fell right into your lap."

Robb gave her a long, silent look. "Don't be petty, Sansa."

At least he didn't do her the disservice of lying.

"I'm not, I'm congratulating you. Though, maybe that's why you don't want to fight the Boltons, you know he'll try to gut you with the fact that your booty call's father is barely a step away from being a terrorist. But Roose has a long gait, I'm sure he'll figure out how to get there."

" _Sansa,_ don't—"

"Don't be pissed because my brother is having sex with possibly one of _the_ worst people he could find politically, and now he's trying to play dumb when I call him on it?" she asked, voice still level, expression smooth as granite.

Robb's look was…not. It was shocked and scared and angry and defensive as he blinked at her, a war going on beneath his skin. Funny, that. She'd always thought he had the best poker face out of her siblings.

"How long have you known?" he asked quietly, pulling himself together, piecing together a defense. "From the fundraiser?"

"You weren't exactly subtle."

"We can't all be perfect like you."

Her mouth filled with the taste of bitter things like lemon rind and rock salt and _Sansa, you're such a filthy hypocrite,_ because of course Robb would be honest when he was caught while Sansa just lied and lied and lied.

This game wasn't much fun when she played with someone that didn't strike back.

She swallowed and looked around for her phone. "I should probably get going," she murmured.

"Are you going to tell anyone?"

She paused, looking back at her brother and feeling just the barest twinge of hurt. He was brave despite his dread, back straight, jaw set, meeting her gaze like a true Stark.

She didn't used to fight with Robb. She just swallowed it down and smiled through the poison, regardless of whether it was his or someone else's. Now she refused to drink it, but somehow that felt worse.

"No, I'm not going to tell anyone," she said, and this was one promise she would keep, no matter what. "But you need to figure this out, Robb. You can't act surprised if you don't do anything and this blows up in our face."

She wasn't just speaking to him on that front. The whole drive home, she heard _Petyr, Petyr, Petyr_ in her head.

* * *

Petyr was in her home and Sansa delighted in it just as much as the first time. The air seemed thinner when he was there, offering less resistance to everything she did.

But there was still a game at play, as there always would be. Their little war of flirtation had become a touch heated, lately, and she could stand going back to a few friendly border skirmishes.

Though, and she would admit this to no one, she had enjoyed the obscene moment of ecstasy on Petyr's face when she had made him come, and she certainly looked forward to doing it again.

He looked at her with delightfully hungry eyes from the moment she opened the door. Sansa had smiled and taken his coat and made it clear that he was just there for conversation, though he was more than welcome to another piece of toast, if he liked. Petyr declined as she went to fetch them drinks. The game, then, would be waiting to see who would break first and pounce on the other.

When Sansa glanced back at him, she caught his gaze lingering on the curves of her pencil skirt.

It might be a shorter round than she'd expected.

But Petyr was nothing if not a consummate professional, and he very wisely sat in the armchair on the other side of the room instead of next to her on the couch. Sansa tucked her feet beneath her as he told her very politely about his day, smiling and nodding and pretending not to notice how his eyes flirted with her neckline. After all, he didn't say anything about her own gaze toying with the buttons of his collar, so she supposed fair was fair.

"Things have improved with the Boltons, I'm imagining?" he asked, once their quota of pleasant mundanities was fulfilled.

Sansa clicked her tongue and took a sip of water. "They haven't."

"Very kind," Petyr told her. "Roose is a man that will enjoy impunity."

"I know." She bit her cheek at the tartness of her tone. She let out a breath, schooled herself back into mildness. "Robb believes he should fight it as he always has—straightforward and upright."

"And what do you say?"

"I say we shouldn't let this rebellion become a war. We need to stamp it out."

He nodded thoughtfully, like this was all news to him. Petyr had probably mapped out all of her answers from the moment she first told him the Boltons had defected, but she appreciated the effort.

"What about Catelyn? She's always been quite thoughtful about these things."

Sansa looked at him, taking extra care not to let her face fold into a grimace.

Her mother had sounded so, so tired when Sansa and Robb had broken the news. " _Okay,_ " she'd said, "okay. We…we'll handle this, as we always do."

Whether she meant they would handle the Boltons with honor or whether the Starks would survive, Sansa wasn't sure. She'd been a bit too distracted by her mother's devastated ' _I knew we shouldn't have trusted him'_ to think about that.

"She's doing damage control in the North," Sansa told Petyr, waving her hand slightly like this was all petty business. "Roose took supporters with him and she's staunching the bleeding. It'll all come to rights, though. Northmen remember who keeps them warm in the winter."

"So, what's the problem?"

"The only way to win is to not be seen doing it, and the rest of my family is too afraid to try."

"I wouldn't have said 'fear' was a Stark trait."

Sansa pursed her lips. It wasn't, but it felt less grimy than saying they were too _noble._

"So, am I here for a war council?"

" _Ideally,_ you are a distraction."

"And _this_ is the best distraction I can offer?"

"Apparently."

He smiled and looked away, letting his gaze drift across the room.

"Roose is a clever man," he said, almost absently. "Cautious, resists vice, ruthlessly pragmatic. The makings of a very difficult problem, if you're not careful. He tried very hard to make his sons just like him, but the one anyone ever remembers is—"

"Ramsay," she said flatly, because it was cleaner than 'rabid' or 'savage' or 'grotesque'.

Petyr's eyes flicked over her briefly, holding a dozen questions he didn't ask and she didn't answer.

"I'm quite tired of speaking about them," she announced, unsure if she sounded petulant or nonchalant or afraid. She was still sour over her argument with Robb and didn't need to brood over yet more crimes she hadn't been able to stop. "Subpar men don't deserve to dominate the conversation."

"Even when you're plotting to destroy them?"

"This feels more like fretting." Sansa stretched her legs across the couch, primly smoothing out her skirt. "Plotting means you actually have a way to bring a man to his knees."

"And what do you know about bringing a man to his knees?"

Sansa gave him a sweet, delicate smile, the kind of thing men loved to read their hopes or fears into. Petyr chuckled to himself and tilted his glass towards her in the echo of a toast.

"Would you be surprised if I told you I've been doing this my whole life?" Sansa asked.

"I make it a habit not to be surprised."

"And how about kneeling?"

"When the need arises. I'm more pragmatic than proud."

Sansa barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. Petyr was plenty proud, but he also had the benefit of being a practiced liar, so the words sounded more than true in his mouth. Although, the idea was certainly intriguing.

She tilted her head, considering.

"I think I'd quite like to see you on your knees, Petyr," she said.

He gave her a delicate smile that women loved to read rejection or adoration into.

Sansa gave the tiniest pout, wondering if she could use his arrogance to her advantage again, or if he'd be more careful this time. "Oh, don't be like that, we can both think of _plenty_ of situations where you'd be glad to get on your knees for me."

"I didn't think this was one of them," he said dryly, making Sansa scrunch up her nose at him. He sighed indulgently, leaning his cheek on a fist. "What might entice me to do this glorious thing?"

"It would make me smile."

"As charming as your smiles are, I'm a touch old to be getting on my knees for every lady who asks."

"Not so old," she corrected, giving her lightest, warmest smile. She couldn't help it turning into a satisfied smirk when he chuckled.

"Don't act so superior, Petyr, you'd _love_ for me to get on my knees," she continued.

"I'm not above it."

"No, I'd dare say you're not."

Sansa watched him get to his feet, then deflated when he crossed the room to stand beside her.

"You're becoming too accustomed to getting what you want," he told her.

"On the contrary, I think I'm only starting to know what it feels like."

Petyr looked down at her, and Sansa was fully prepared to brace her foot against his chest if he tried to kiss her. But when he leaned over, it was merely to pull a throw pillow from between her and the couch. Sansa watched him quizzically, then straightened in delight when he dropped it on the floor next to the couch and carefully got to his knees.

"Don't become accustomed to this," he warned her.

"Oh, you've made me _very_ happy," she said, pressing back into the cushions. "Now I just have to think what to do with you."

Feeding a billionaire toast while she ate steak had been delicious, but it was _nothing_ compared to getting him to kneel at her feet.

Petyr didn't dignify her teasing with a response. Instead, he told her, "You'll need to persuade your family to join you if you want to fully deal with the Boltons."

"I know," she sighed, then very carefully put her foot on his shoulder. "And how do you propose I convince a Stark to worry more about being clever than chivalrous?"

"Tell her how very good she'd be and pray she listens."

She had to admit, he was very good.

Petyr turned his head and kissed her ankle, fingers just barely brushing her calf. Sansa bit down on the shudder that raced up her back, though she shouldn't have been surprised. Petyr was formidable even when silent, even when on his knees.

"Robb will be easiest," she murmured.

"Will he? I would have thought he had too much of his father in him."

She gave a flat chuckle, shaking her head. It was funny to hear Petyr say it, so easily, so unawares.

Sansa had known people would want another Ned, even before her father had died. People liked surety in their politicians, consistency, a change of guard that was more cosmetic than substantive. If they'd known how like their mother Robb was—clever, perceptive, and, needs must, ruthless—he might not have won the vote. So, Sansa and Catelyn had done their best to cast Robb in Ned's image. He wore the same colors, took much the same stance, even practiced his handshake to be sturdy and gruff, just as Ned's had been. Sansa had helped shape Robb just as she had helped create his Finer Future campaign, and the world was none the wiser.

"Oh, I can sway him," she murmured, watching Petyr lean forward to kiss her knee, sparing her half a glance to show he was listening…mostly. "Robb wants to win, I know he does. And he's in too delicate a situation to suffer much more. He knows he can't sit idly by."

Roose or Talisa, that was how she'd frame it. Either Robb could deal with Roose his way or he could keep Talisa. Maybe it could have been different, maybe in another life he could have been so solid in his position that he could have ignored Roose's betrayal and keep Talisa, hang the consequences. But the Starks only had the strength to withstand one scandal, and Robb knew that. If Sansa framed it as them against the world, if she made it clear she had their— _his_ —best interest at heart, if she apologized…

"I'm very glad to hear it," Petyr murmured. For a moment she thought he might try to reach up her skirt, but his manners held. Instead, he slid her leg off his shoulder and pushed himself up to kiss her on the mouth.

Sansa settled a hand against his hair, letting him kiss her a bit deeper. Then, of course, he took his usual liberties and laid on top of her. She bit back a laugh, knowing Petyr could still taste it through their kiss, anyways. He held her to him, one hand on her hip, the other braced against her back as he kissed her long and slow.

She'd missed this. She had missed kissing Petyr like no one and nothing else existed. Yes, she knew it wasn't that simple, and _yes_ , she knew she had to be careful with him, Sansa had learned that lesson once and didn't need a refresher. But sometimes, right now, she just wanted to enjoy that they were no longer fighting with each other.

Sansa let herself relish the mint of his mouth and the heat of his body. Petyr rolled his hips against her, once, slow, just to prove he could. She swallowed a sound of pleasure, because he would take that as encouragement to go further, and Sansa was very determined to keep her clothes _on_ today. But the belt buckle would have to go.

"Don't get excited," she murmured, pressing her hands between them and reaching for his belt. Petyr lifted himself obligingly, pausing for a moment as she undid his belt buckle and pulled it out of the loops enough so that it was no longer biting into her hip.

Petyr chucked then leaned back in to kiss below her ear. Sansa tried to keep her breathing steady. They should do this more often, she decided, no tricks or traps or sneaking around in public, just…this. She slid her hands in his back pockets, letting Petyr decide if she wanted him to grind against her again or if she just wanted to put her hands on his ass. Neither had especially pure motives.

He rolled his hips again and a tiny sigh escaped her, despite Sansa's best efforts.

"Sansa," Petyr mumbled against her neck.

"Mm?" she hummed, eyes closed. He kissed her jaw, softly, softly.

"What are you not telling me about the Boltons?"

She pulled back to stare at him, heart skipping. His eyes were dark and temptingly lusty and wonderfully calculating.

"Did you just—don't tell me all _that_ was just to get a secret out of me."

"Oh, don't undersell yourself, it was plenty desirable on its own."

Sansa promptly pulled her hands out of his back pockets.

"And the kneeling?"

"I told you, I'm more pragmatic than proud."

"You're wicked," she told him, tweaking his ear to show she was _not_ amused. But she was a little impressed. Yet again he had told her what he was about to do, and yet again he _still_ took her by surprise. If only he was asking her for a more harmless tale, then it might not taste like acid when she indulged him.

"I'm practiced," he said, taking hold of her wrist and pressing her palm against his lips. He still watched her with those hungry, hungry eyes. He would probably accept either her or her secret, Sansa thought, weighing her options. Petyr didn't seem to be in a particularly picky mood.

She watched him, trying to think through the dread creeping up her throat. She had promised to explain the history with the Boltons and the Lannisters, to fill in the gaps Petyr had never known existed, but Sansa had vainly hoped that maybe she could stall until it didn't matter anymore, and then she would never have to say it out loud. Not because she cherished the secret, but more because secrets changed things, especially when they were about yourself. Petyr had just looked at her like she was a queen, she couldn't stand the thought of his gaze changing when he saw her as a wounded little girl.

But this secret was hers, more than anyone's, and there was power in Petyr asking her to share rather than wrestling it from her hands.

Sansa let out a slow breath and focused on his collar. She traced the seams as she spoke, studying the folds in the fabric like she could trick herself into forgetting what was being said.

"Roose Bolton has always been loyal to my father," she started. "He might not have always agreed with him, but he's been loyal. Reliable."

"Those aren't words I'd use for the Boltons," Petyr scoffed. "He's brutally pragmatic, more like. If there were a better bet in the North than Ned Stark, he would have taken it."

"Maybe," she murmured, eyebrows furrowing. "But Roose caged his son when he could have fought."

Pragmatism or no, he had fallen on his sword for the Starks instead of clawing out a bloody pound of flesh. That was what made his betrayal so bitter, Sansa thought. She had respected the gesture, had read nobility in Roose's willingness to eat the shame of the moment and bend to Ned in hopes of mercy.

But that was probably her naïveté coming through. She had been so thankful for the lack of hatred or disdain in Roose's eyes that she'd never considered it wasn't grace but a lack of care. He didn't care about Sansa or any of them, really. The Starks were merely the fastest dog in the race, just as Petyr said.

"His son?" Petyr asked, raising his eyebrows. "Now what did Ramsay do, and how does that tie in to the Lannisters?"

Sansa looked up at him again. He waited for her answer, then a flicker of doubt went across his face.

Petyr pushed himself upright, muzzled alarm making his voice low.

"He didn't—did he hurt you?"

She smiled, thin and tired. "Nothing quite so bad as you might think."

The truth was as painful as it was unimpressive. Very simply, it went like this: Sansa had enjoyed a winter party right up until the moment she had found herself alone on a balcony with Ramsay Bolton and Joffrey Lannister, and at first things had been fine but then their rough teasing and bawdy jokes turned into them quite literally cutting the clothes off of her.

That was it, really. They hadn't touched her (too much), hadn't hurt her (not really), hadn't made any lasting marks (physically). Other girls had it much worse, had bled and even died when venomous boys decided to have their fun. All they'd done to Sansa was tell her to stand still, unless she _wanted_ to get cut, and keep quiet, unless she _wanted_ people to come watch.

Not that they'd started that way, of course. Joffrey had ripped her sleeve in one sharp, clean motion, had given a little laugh of surprised delight at how easy it'd been. Ramsay was the one that said it'd go faster if they had a blade, then pulled the knife from his pocket.

The worst part of it was that Sansa had told herself it was a joke almost the entire time. She had to prove she was a good sport, she had to laugh along when the conversation turned against her, had to be pleasant when Joffrey ruined her pretty new dress, had to be steady and brave when Ramsay set the knife tip against her shoulder. She had even talked herself through Ramsay slicing open her bodice to reveal her bra. It wasn't until he put a finger to her mouth to keep her from speaking, then closed her wrist in a vice to keep her from moving did Sansa realize she had made a bouquet of ugly mistakes.

"They tried to cut off my clothes at a party when we were young," she whispered, like maybe it wouldn't be so bad if the words were soft. "And then my brothers came and it broke out into a fight."

Ramsay had just cut through her second bra strap when Robb and Jon found them. Jon hadn't hesitated to tackle Ramsay to the ground, just as Robb gave Joffrey a clean punch that did the same. It didn't matter that he was the son of the prime minister or a Lannister or even that he was three years younger, Robb had told Sansa later. Joffrey had recorded Sansa being attacked by Ramsay and had therefore deserved swift justice.

Sansa was grateful for that, despite the trouble it caused later, and for Robb smashing Joffrey's phone. She hadn't even noticed Joffrey start the recording. She'd been too focused on Ramsay and how he traced the knife tip ever so delicately along her skin.

Petyr stared at her in blank shock, like the words had been much bigger than they were, harder to understand. Sansa laughed, because she couldn't bear that look turning into pity.

He leaned back, making her ache for his heat. Sansa pushed herself upright so she could pretend it had been her choice, striving for casual because casual meant in control and not terrified Petyr might never look at her the same way again.

"Who would have thought the noble Starks could harbor such a secret?" she said, her mouth more a wry slash than a smile. "But I guess that's the perk of being noble—you never blacken anyone's name, even if you have cause."

The Lannisters and Boltons had likely only stayed quiet because they knew they wouldn't have survived the shame. They could sling mud and defame Sansa all they wanted, could drag out the tiny details of Robb attacking Joffrey or Jon nearly beating Ramsay unconscious, could muddy the bigger matter that was Sansa being attacked. But in the end Ramsay had held the knife and Joffrey had recorded it happening as he waited his turn.

"They cut off my clothes," she repeated, torn between needing Petyr to understand and wanting to hide it all away. "It was—it was a game to them, almost, to see how far they could go before the shock wore off and I started screaming. It probably would have been much worse if Robb and Jon hadn't found us. I could have had it much worse. But…mm. We left the party before things went too far."

She'd still woken up feeling the knife tip against her sternum for weeks after, though.

Petyr remained silent for a long moment, his eyes dark and terrible. Sansa clenched her jaw, her anxiety making her want to lash out, demand he say something. He looked her over, possibly imagining where Ramsay's hands had gone, possibly wondering whether Joffrey's touch had left bruises.

"I didn't know," he said finally, like that was as big a crime as any. Sansa found herself laughing again at the absurdity of it.

"That's because nice girls like me don't get to _have_ secrets, because either it means we're not so nice as everyone would believe or it turns out people were bad to nice girls, and we can't have that."

He just kept looking at her with those cautious, unhappy eyes. "Then what happened?"

"My father tried to make peace," Sansa said easily, because this part didn't involve her, not really. It had been Ned's trial, bringing Roose to heel, facing off with Tywin and Cersei every day, arguing with Robert on his sickbed that this wasn't just some risqué fun between teens at a party, it had been Sansa pinned against a wall, too frightened of the knife against her chest to run away. "But the Lannisters didn't want peace, they wanted to win. At first, they tried to discredit us, ruin our good name so we'd never be believed."

Which had been an amusingly futile task, painful as it had been. Cersei had even gone so far as to spread the rumor that Jon wasn't really adopted but rather Ned's illegitimate son. It would have meant nothing, but Ned had been Ned and his honor and good name were the core tenets of his platform. Violating the sanctity of his marriage and then so brazenly covering it up would have ruined him, if the Lannisters could make the mud stick.

Sansa was tired of living in a world where decency could be used as a stick the immoral used to beat people with. She was so tired of the Starks never getting what they were due.

At least the Baratheons hadn't mobilized to Joffrey's aid. Renly didn't care about things outside of his atmosphere, and no one was fool enough to think Stannis would break out in a bout of nepotism to defend his nephew's sexual harassment. Things had been hard enough without Ned fighting a war on two fronts.

"So, when peace wouldn't serve, my father promised war. They would fight, and it would have been terrible, but here, at least, we knew even grand old Tywin and his family would lose. My father would move mountains if he had a just cause. Sure, Cersei would lie and Tywin could threaten every person in Parliament, but in the end, my father had the truth and that was a more devastating fortune than even Tywin Lannister could own. So, they declared it a draw and put a leash on Joffrey and they've hated us ever since."

"And the Boltons?

"Their debt was in blood. Roose agreed to send his son away. He knew he'd never survive the scandal, especially not when Cersei put all the blame on Ramsay, since Joffrey wasn't actually _seen_ doing anything to me. So, Ramsay went off to some private school in the North in the hopes it could beat some sense into him. And Roose became my father's staunchest ally. No matter what, my father could trust him. But he was probably just biding his time," Sansa murmured, smiling black, black, black, to show she now knew better. "A seasoned minister with a reputation built on truth is far more frightening than his young upstart children. It'd be easy to shut us up now, and that push is likely all it would take to keep Robb from ever being re-elected."

"That's a long ways off," Petyr murmured, but Sansa knew how these things went. If she accused Ramsay, not even Joffrey, _just_ Ramsay Bolton of cutting off her clothes when she was sixteen, she would be called attention seeking, a liar, dredging up old misunderstandings because Roose had switched sides. Then Sansa would stop being a nice girl, a perfect girl, a sweet girl and start being a problem, then where would she be?

Never mind this whole Talisa business. She had meant what she said about Roose gutting Robb with that relationship. He would be branded the bright-eyed, entitled fool who was blinded by the women around him, who thought politics was easy because he'd bought his position through the power of his name.

No. Sansa couldn't attack Roose head on, not now.

"Who'd have thought the Lannisters and Boltons played the long game," Petyr said to himself, thoughtful and cunning once more.

"Oh, that was probably sheer dumb luck," Sansa scoffed. "They wouldn't have known my father was sick until later, and neither has the patience for that."

"Especially not Cersei."

They sat in chilled silence for a long moment, Sansa watching their reflection in the darkened windows. She thought she would feel different after telling Petyr, vulnerable, maybe, lighter, maybe. But now all she felt was a nervous cold as she waited to see what happened next.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked her, and Sansa's stomach gave a strange leap. She looked at him, but his eyes held no pity, no contempt, nothing to say he thought her smaller or less capable than when they had first met. They were still dark, though, but she suspected it was with a different kind of lust this time.

"What do you mean?" she asked, carefully, carefully, because if this was going to happen, she needed to hear it plain.

"Roose Bolton let his child terrorize you, then betrayed you at his first convenience, and now will likely do all he can to destroy your hard work. You said earlier you needed to stamp out this rebellion and I'm wondering if that's all. So now I ask again," he said, leaning in so his chest was braced against her leg. "What do you want to do to him?"

"I want to destroy the Boltons. Them and the Lannisters both," she whispered, voice smooth and deadly as black ice. "I want to turn their futures to ash."

And Petyr smiled like he was proud of her appetite and kissed her fingers.

"Of course, sweetling," he murmured, and Sansa wondered if this was how empires were made. Not with brick and blood and coin, but with the destruction of the old one and the plans for something much, much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that one was kind of heavy so I'm not going to make a joke right after


	10. something different altogether

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year! this chapter took a little season, but I realized about halfway through that my fun, self-indulgent ship fest with the mere aesthetics of politics had turned into actual political manuevering with about five disparate threads that needed to be accounted for in this chapter alone, and honestly? it almost killed me. but it's here now and I'm stronger and wiser for it and will absolutely make this mistake again in the future. wish me luck.

In theory, Sansa's plan to deal with Robb worked. It made perfect sense that she would be able to neatly tell him that, yes, the whole Talisa situation had started on the wrong foot, but she was willing to work it out with him. She should have been able to explain that they could handle the bad press her family would undoubtedly bring, so long as they brought Roose to task. Robb would very politely not ask why Sansa had changed her mind, Sansa wouldn't have to lie about Petyr, and they would be all the stronger for it.

Except Robb was a Stark, which meant he was stubborn as hell and while he was too professional to act out in front of the office full of aides, speechwriters, and assistants, he certainly let his anger at Sansa creep across the room, biting into her bones and making her shiver. And Sansa, also being a Stark, lifted her chin and made it clear that she would not be cowed and she certainly wouldn't be commanded, not when she knew she was right.

The days were slow and painful. The subjects of Roose and Talisa were treated like live wire, and whenever Robb or Sansa were foolish enough to brush against it, they always came away exhausted and smarting.

It wasn't really a surprise when he told her, after she'd notified him that she'd be leaving early for a doctor's appointment, that he wouldn't make family dinner.

"I've other plans," he said, voice level and cool like he was addressing a debate opponent.

"I'm sure," she said, then bit her tongue when his gaze dropped from chilly to freezing. Sansa hadn't even _meant_ it like that, she had just been hurt that he canceled last second and annoyed that she was hurt because she shouldn't have been surprised and all of that disappointment was in her voice and, and, and.

"This is an ugly side of you," he told her, because everyone else had left for lunch and he was allowed to be honest. Robb was noble and chivalrous when he fought people, but that meant when he hit, he hit very, very hard.

"Yes, well, Robb, I think I deserve the right to be ugly after everything."

"And what's that get you?"

She clenched her teeth, because he was becoming as bad as Arya, needling her every little word and action when her reasoning should be _obvious._

"The right to be human, same as you."

"And this feels human, does it? This is how you want to spend your day, fighting with me?"

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly so bone deadeningly angry that she couldn't speak. _Of course_ she didn't want to be fighting with Robb, she wanted to be strategizing with him, wanted to wrangle this nightmare into something manageable and get a few wins under their belt so they could finally have a moment to breathe and patch up their wounds. Sansa would very gladly put the world in Robb's palm if he just stopped _fighting_ her.

Also, he was being petty and personal and this wasn't about _her,_ this was about him and the Boltons and Talisa and the Stark legacy and finally proving that _yes,_ Ned's children could do something other than smile and wave and be pure.

"If that's the war I have to win before I defeat the Boltons, Lannisters, and all of the gutless, selfish, despicable people ruining this world, then _yes,_ Robb, I will do it."

"And you don't think for a second you're doing this because I hurt your pride?" he asked. "You're not mad that I didn't run Talisa by you first?"

"If you _had,_ I would have told you what an exceptionally _stupid_ idea it was."

"Sansa, you don't get any say about what I do in my personal life!"

"I do when it directly impacts your _political one!_ Robb, that is the _whole reason_ I am here, it's to make sure that you still have a career by the end of the year. And sneaking around—"

The words caught in her throat, sticky and black like tar.

Sansa was ready and willing to be grand and terrible and great, to sharpen her claws and step on the throats of anyone undeserving mercy, but that wasn't _Robb._ She wasn't supposed to be fighting _Robb._

But Robb kept saying things that made her want to strike back and then he was honor or maybe just temper bound to do the same and then they were caught in a vicious cycle she couldn't see the end of. She didn't want to condemn her brother with a mouth all too familiar with the taste of Petyr's kisses.

Robb's gaze could have cut through bone. "Go ahead, finish that thought, Sansa."

"No, this isn't productive, I'm not going to keep doing this," she said, shaking her head and backing away from his desk before she said something even worse. She knew where this would take her, where she would end up if she didn't at least _try_ to stop. At some vague point in the future Sansa would have to tell her family about Petyr, would have to tell _Robb_ that she had lied to and berated him even as she did the exact same thing behind his back. And in that moment, if she did not change what she was doing, Sansa knew she would lose her brother. And in that moment, if she lost one more member of her family, Sansa knew she would die.

"That's not going to last," Robb said cynically, almost laughing as he looked at her over the desk.

" _Robb—_ I am trying to make peace here."

"No, Sansa, you're not. You're trying to get me to agree with you. And that's not going to happen, not when you seem bent on destroying anything that offends you."

"I need to go to my doctor's appointment," she said, turning on her heel and leaving before he could cut her with those big, familiar blue eyes.

Her phone rang as she left the parking lot. It was Catelyn, her voice crackly and comforting as a hearth fire.

"Can you talk, love?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way to a doctor's appointment."

"Is everything alright?"

"Oh, it's all routine."

"Alright."

There was pause before Catelyn said, "Robb told me you've been fighting."

Sansa laughed in surprise, a hard thing, even to her. "That's it, you're not going to warm me up first?"

Catelyn sighed into the phone, more weary than annoyed. "No, honey, I'm sorry. I don't have much time right now, I need to go speak with the Umbers to convince them Robb is still a safe bet because one of them felt the need to 'get Roose's side of the story', then I need to go to a school meeting for the boys, and then I have to follow up with Edmure, he said he had some idea that might help."

Sansa rolled her eyes. She loved her Uncle Edmure very much, but he was a blessed soul that didn't know a thing about politics, not even how much he didn't know.

She chewed her cheek, then asked, "Did Robb call you?"

"Just now? No. _Please_ tell me you weren't fighting in the office."

"Not where anyone could see."

"Oh, honey," Catelyn sighed, and the exhaustion and world-weariness just got worse, the weight of it almost dragging Sansa through the floor. "It's a tough time for all of us."

"What did he say?" she asked, scared and angry that Robb might have told their mother everything.

"You disagree on how to handle the Boltons."

"Interesting, I didn't realize he even had a plan."

"That was unkind, Sansa."

"Tell me Robb has even an _ounce_ of an idea how to make it look like he didn't just thank Roose for running him through and I'll take it back."

Sansa squeezed her hands around the steering wheel in hot-tempered guilt. She had just told herself she wouldn't fight her brother, and now she was attacking him when he wasn't even in the room.

"I agree he needs to take action, and soon. But attacking him isn't going to help. He needs support, not more conflict."

 _But_ I _need support,_ Sansa thought, but she knew if she admitted that she might just cry from frustration, and she couldn't do that, she couldn't cry in public because it would ruin her makeup and some tabloid would produce a picture and Cersei Lannister or someone would turn it into a nightmare and she just wanted to be able to _breathe_ without having to worry about what people thought about it.

"What if what he's doing is very _stupid_?" Sansa asked instead, flicking on her turn signal.

"Then you need to council him _without_ making it feel like a fight for his life. I know that right now, him being in office feels normal and I know you want the world for him. But this _isn't_ normal. If your father hadn't fallen ill, Robb would be here in Winterfell, most likely, taking the slow route to power like everyone else. He's young, Sansa, just like you, and you two have done _so_ much already, but be gentle with each other. You're still learning."

"We don't have _time_ to learn, Mom," Sansa said, and she was surprised at how her voice broke. Not completely, not pitifully, just a splintering of the words that made her throat catch. "Roose is coming for us _now_ and we don't have time to do what Dad did, to be measured and thorough and just."

"So, you won't be thorough?"

" _No,_ it's just—I love Dad and I respect everything he did, of course I do, but that's _not_ going to work for us. We have to be bolder, more cunning, if we are _ever_ going to survive this."

"And how would you do that?"

"Make sure that Roose Bolton, that _all_ of the Boltons know they can _never_ touch us again. Not if they want to keep all their fingers."

Ned hadn't been afraid of using sticks instead of carrots, but he always made sure to do it openly, clearly, candidly. Catelyn was more willing to use clever methods, but even so, Sansa knew she was taking a radical track. The wheedling and promising and threatening and lying, shaking with one hand and slapping with the other, this was something entirely new. Awfully suggestive for a Stark, Petyr had called it, unwholesome, even. But it was effective _,_ and Sansa was so _tired_ of not having any teeth.

Finally, Catelyn said, "That could work, yes. But it begs the question, Sansa—what's left after?"

"Peace."

"With the Boltons, maybe. But what about the Lannisters, they're involved in this as well. What if Walder Frey or one of his children act out? What if someone entirely new enters the scene, will you crush all of them? At that point, what's to make you—"

"I will be _entirely_ different from them," Sansa snarled.

It was only in the heavy, dripping silence that followed that Sansa realized maybe she didn't have as good a hold on her kingmaker claws as she thought.

She squirmed in her seat for a moment, then said, quieter, "I just—I am tired of being ruined because we refuse to adapt."

"Being ruthless isn't adapting, Sansa."

"So, what's left, then? What _else_ can I do? Because I'm sick of the way things are, Mom," she said, and this time she really did feel tears gather in her eyes, and she didn't know if it was because she was finally admitting her hurt or because she was angry at the world or because she was afraid her family might never understand. "I'm sick of sacrificing myself on the altar of these men's egos, I'm sick of having to crawl through the mud and have people tell me I should be thankful I'm not _drowning_. It's not good enough to be pretty and palatable and pleasing. It's not enough for women to sit in fear on the knees of so-called impressive men!"

She wanted to be seen as impressive not because of the height of the heel she wore or the amount of makeup she put on or how sweetly she could phrase her sentences. She wanted people to recognize that she was intelligent and practical and measured and worthy of being listened to because she had proven herself, time and time again. She wanted to not compromise herself for some boy that barely knew the enormity of her, who panicked when she outmatched him.

She wanted Petyr. Crooked as he was, wrong for her as he was, she wanted Petyr and she didn't want to apologize for it and it was so _stupid_ that she was thinking about it at this precise second, but she was and now she could never take it back.

"I know, honey, of course I do," Catelyn said, and even though she didn't know all that was breaking her daughter's heart, Sansa found comfort in it, anyway. She was gentle in the face of her daughter's misery, a safe harbor in the chaos of the sea. The image of poise, even when confronting an enemy, even when consoling her daughter, even when mediating between her children. "But cutting people down isn't going to make you whole, and it's not going to prove that you're worth respect. It just means that you're someone that knows how to draw blood."

"So, what do I do?" she asked, voice smaller than last time, like she was a little girl again.

"We need to handle the Boltons. Not gently, not brutally, but we _do_ need to deal with them. And for that, you need your brother on your side. You need someone who already believes you're exceptional to help you convince everyone else. There's strength in the pack, Sansa."

"I know," she muttered, trying to push Petyr out of her mind. "But he's not making it easy."

"You don't like easy," Catelyn laughed. "None of us do."

 _Certainly not,_ Sansa thought, surrendering when she saw Petyr's incoming text that said, _I can do later this week._

* * *

_hey don't forget i land at 8_

Sansa gave the text half a glance, then finished applying her makeup. She hesitated over the lipstick, then decided it wasn't worth worrying about. Sansa smiled at herself in the mirror, hiding her butterflies with straight shoulders and a confident tilt of the head.

She checked the clock for the eighth time in about ten minutes. She shouldn't be so nervous, it was hardly the first date she'd had with Petyr, and it certainly didn't match the production of going to the opera together.

And yet this was something different altogether, something bigger, more important. Initially, they were only supposed to have lunch at his place. But then Sansa had asked if they could do dinner instead, and then had further asked if they could go out to eat.

Petyr had been surprised, of course, considering how cautious she had been before. He had followed up with reasonably pragmatic questions, like what her goal was, what sort of event was this dinner, and who all would be there.

 _No goal,_ Sansa had texted back, wondering if she should call him, wondering if she should tell him this in person. _I just want to go to dinner and it mean something._

He could have asked more questions, could have worded deceptively mild assumptions, could have even placed that vulnerability in his back pocket for a day when he was feeling particularly bored, but Petyr just responded that he knew a lovely little place on the other side of town.

They had passed from the comforting grey area of flirtation into something far more tangible the moment Petyr had admitted he would like her to stay, the moment she had confessed that someone had left smudges on her heart. What they were now, though, Sansa didn't think she had a name for it. She didn't _want_ a name for it. She liked the power of not fitting into a box.

Sansa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, adjusted her shirt, then told herself not to mess with her appearance again. Her goal for the night was to look demure at first glance and teasing on the second. Her white top was form fitting and had a generous scoop of a neckline that was just shy of showing actual cleavage. Her slate grey skirt tapered delicately at her waist, only to flare extravagantly and show off the watercolor flowers decorating the fabric. And then, of course, her heels were tall, pointed, and perfectly matched her blood red handbag.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Sansa's heart leaped into her throat and she hurried to answer.

Petyr had dressed down for the evening, or at least, as much as one could when they lived in an array of bespoke suits. He wore his usual dark two piece, this one a deep navy that made his crisp white button down almost painful to the eyes. He wore no tie, no vest, and cufflinks black as a ransom note. There was something deliciously indecent about the whole ensemble, though Sansa wouldn't let herself think about that before dinner.

"You look lovely," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her. Sansa smiled and dug her thumbnail into her finger. Habit whispered that there was still time for her to cancel, that they didn't have to commit to being in public, this was never worth the risk. She could invite him in, they could have a perfectly lovely time there.

Sansa took his proffered hand and let Petyr lead her to the car. They had only just pulled onto the street when Sansa clicked her tongue and pulled out her phone.

"Everything alright?" he asked, casting her half a look.

"Oh, no, it's fine, I just forgot to respond to Arya," she muttered, swiping a quick response. "She's coming into town next week."

"The renowned athlete," he murmured, which made Sansa roll her eyes because she knew Arya would like the title a little _too_ much. "What's the occasion?"

"Some sports camp in Dorne," Sansa said, waving her hand. "She'll only be here for a few days leading up to it. She says all of the politicking gives her hives."

Petyr laughed at that, shaking his head. "You all picked what you do very well, then."

"We Starks see what we want and go after it," she agreed, raising a coy eyebrow.

Petyr caught her gaze and cracked another, more suggestive smile. "A habit I approve of," he said, slipping his hand into hers.

The restaurant was one of those classy, hidden treasure sort of places. It nestled between a woman's boutique and a trendy bookstore, its entrance clean cut and utterly unassuming. Inside, the restaurant was dark and charming. It was all sleek lines, velvet upholstery, and golden accents, the second story limited to a balcony that allowed for a dozen tiny chandeliers. It was very elegant, very lush, and very Petyr.

"And what led you to this place?" she asked, admiring the wrought iron railings around the balcony.

"Recommendation from a friend, way back when," he said, pulling out her seat. "Apparently, King's Landing has a wealth of excellent eateries, all of which were largely unappealing to an overworked bachelor."

"And now?"

"I'm not a bachelor," he said, giving her a wonderfully impolite smile before looking over his menu.

This made them feel more real, somehow, more tangible than the handful of secret visits to their homes or the slew of coy double talk at public functions or even the undefined parameters of going to the opera. The intentionality gave it substance, made it valid enough to last.

"I was wondering if you've given your future any more thought," he said, not looking up at her.

"I've given it thousands of thoughts, care to be more specific?"

He glanced up at her, a lazy flick of the eyes that went wonderfully well with a turn of the page. "You have a goal, now we need to discuss how to get there."

Sansa considered him over a sip of lemon water, weighing whether she was bold enough to discuss the pursuit of vengeance in public. "I'm assuming you mean other than staying my course. What is it you business types like to say— _diversify my portfolio_?"

He smiled, lips twitching like he didn't want to admit he was amused. "Your brother is a horse we will make profitable, but his is a long race to run. You need a few easy victories that'll pad out your resume and make you fast friends."

"I'm not sure those are the kind I want to keep," she said, mildly.

"Then don't," he told her, easy as breathing. She thought about the friends he had made when he sank Robb's bill, the ones he'd decried as scoundrels and disposable. Was that how everyone played this game, she wondered, or just him? Perhaps that was why no one had caught onto him yet.

The waiter arrived to take their order, then glided away with their menus.

Sansa tapped her nails on the tablecloth. "I won't do anything I'll be ashamed to admit."

"You don't have to," he said with a chuckle. "The Stark image has its uses. I daresay it's easier for you to convince people of Robb's intentions than the average politician's aide."

Sansa hummed, loath to admit that her glossy veneer was of any help.

"I could include myself more in my mother's charitable works," she said, thinking out loud. "But that'll only help so much, people will want to see policy, successful campaigns, things that last."

"Don't be too hasty," Petyr said, though the hungry glint in his eyes said he liked where she was headed. "Friends are friends, regardless of their background. Besides, philanthropy isn't as toothless as you'd think. Have you followed the career of Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Not closely," Sansa said with a frown. Daenerys was the last of the Targaryens, an old-money family that had ruined itself on a slew of bad business deals and dubious political endeavors and a scandal or three. Daenerys was the last remnant of a long-extinguished dynasty, though Sansa had the vague impression she had recalled some of their former glory. Outside of knowing she'd gone to a reputable university in Pentos, though, Sansa didn't know much.

"She's gained quite the reputation for herself," Petyr said. "She's framed herself as a voice of the people, and has challenged the political machines of Meereen, Astapor, _and_ Yunkai with her activism and charities."

"How does a down and out heiress from Westeros represent the oppressed of city states in _Essos_?" Sansa asked, flashing a brief smile at their waiter when he delivered their drinks.

"She's Westerosi in blood, only. She's spent her entire life on the other side of the Narrow Sea, and she's had her own taste of tragedy, besides. Daenerys married what can only rightly be called a warlord, which offered her a sort of luxury, but even then, he died shortly after."

"And so, the warlord's wife spends her life vying for peace," Sansa murmured, stirring her straw in her drink. It was a good headline, say the least. "And she's been successful?"

"Successful enough that the Great Masters have tried defaming her at every turn. Now, you may not have a warlord—"

"But I may have something just as good," Sansa finished, then looked up at him. " _And_ he's alive."

Petyr offered her a delicious smile. "Just so," he said, and let the subject change.

Though she would admit it to no one, Sansa had held a tenuous fear that the frisson of scheming and sneaking was all that held them together. From her observation, relationships built on the illicit rarely survived daylight, and there was always a chance the same would apply to them. And yet, here they were.

Petyr listened politely as she told him of harmless workplace drama, offering delightfully dry critiques of her co-workers and colleagues at all the right moments. He, in turn, talked about trends in broadcasting services, and what that might mean for the entertainment industry at large. They used no double talk, they kept their hands and feet to themselves, and the most scandalous thing that occurred was Sansa stealing a bite from Petyr's plate. Everything was easy as it had ever been, the two of them gliding along like this had been rehearsed.

"What you said before," she began, once they had finished their meal and proved they could survive the mundane, "about my future, about…what I need to do next. How would you do it? If you were in my place, how would you correct the situation?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, mouth quirking. "A delightful bit of euphemism. If I were you, Sansa…I'd make them choke on their failings. Arrogance, selfishness, a lust for power, cruelty, they're fearsome weapons but also very sweet bait."

"So, all I need is an injured lamb and they'll come running."

"It might need a bit more seasoning than that. But once they're there…people so rarely look for swords when they eat."

"What then?" she asked softly.

Petyr tilted his head in the ghost of a shrug, an obsidian smile on his lips. "That's the beauty of it—you can do anything."

"You've told me that before," Sansa said, raising an eyebrow.

"It's just as true now as before."

She toyed with her fork, studying him. She was tempted by this idea, tempted at the thought of making the Lannisters and Boltons and every other foul person in the capital choke on their own blood. It was old justice, old as the Frostfangs and the First Men and the fatal punishment for crime. It was perhaps the only way to purge King's Landing so she could fill it with good people, honorable men, sturdy and noble and honest like her brother.

And yet she couldn't forget his words, or her mother's— _you seem bent on destroying anything that offends you, cutting people down isn't going to make you whole._

They would see it as vengeance rather than justice, selfish and mean and cruel, and they would not help her. There was strength in the pack, always, always, and if she were not careful, she would lose the oldest members she had.

"And why would you do this, Petyr?" she asked. "What would be your reason for taking such action?"

"You said you wanted to turn their futures to ash," he said softly, though his voice was not harmless.

"But if I wasn't here, if it wasn't me."

Petyr looked at her for one long, calculating moment. His words were flat and pragmatic. "Then I wouldn't do anything. I wouldn't get involved at all. But you _are_ here, and they _did_ hurt you."

"So, it would be for vengeance."

"It would be for love."

Sansa met his gaze over the table, even though her breath caught, even though her heart skipped. Petyr didn't say anything, didn't smile, didn't blink.

She had said once that the truth was slippery in his hands, and he had smiled because he knew it was true. His honesty qualified only through the most patchwork of rules, full of technicalities, loose interpretations, and generous rounding errors. But the way he looked at her now, the way he waited for her to speak, it said that he wanted her to hold onto this truth with both hands, just in case.

"And if I chose another method? A softer method?"

"A softer ash," Petyr chuckled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I can't build empires like you, Petyr," she said quietly. "I can't build on the bones of people who inconvenience me."

"It's a very dirty business, kingmaking, for someone who doesn't want to be covered in mud."

"Then I will make it a different way. I will give no quarter, but I will not do anything I'll be ashamed to admit."

Petyr tilted his head, another, more cynical smile on his lips. "Ned's daughter, after all."

She nodded, breathing only the tiniest sips of air.

Sansa needed this to work. She needed this to be perfect, to be right because she had bet her life on this man and if she was wrong, she would break. She would piece herself back together like she always had, but she wanted so desperately for Petyr not to make her break.

They watched each other for a silent, breathless moment before he said, "I would still help. Wherever you want to go, I will help you get there."

Sansa nodded and sat back, her heartbeat loud and relieved in her ears.

They talked for a while more, but finally Petyr paid the bill, then pulled her chair out for her. He held out her coat for her to put on and waited as she adjusted her large handbag over her shoulder. Sansa leaned forward and kissed him, barely, a brush on the corner of the mouth. He looked at her, half raising an eyebrow, but Sansa just shook her head, a tiny smile in place. Some things were too small to explain.

They walked to the car slowly, arm in arm, and Sansa tried to imagine this being an everyday occurrence, this being open and not secret and real. It wasn't as hard as she used to think.

"I enjoyed tonight," Sansa said as they waited at a stoplight, pressing her fingernail into the pad of her thumb.

Petyr smiled at her. "I'd welcome making it a habit."

She bit her tongue, waiting, giving herself one last chance to reconsider. She was nervous, unsettled and excited as she had been the first time they'd shared a car, so conscious of her hands and feet, achingly aware of how his gaze flirted with her red, red mouth. There was more at stake, now, and also less, and somehow experience didn't make her more certain.

"I wouldn't mind a night cap," she told him, voice carefully mild. "I'm not quite ready to go home, just yet."

Petyr leveled her a careful, thoughtful glance that gave nothing away, then looked back at the road when the stop light changed.

"I'm sure I could arrange something," he said. Sansa could have almost sworn she caught his smirk in the passing streetlight.

It was strange, being let into his townhouse. The two previous times she had visited had been forays into disputed territory, each step holding as much possibility as it did danger. Now, though, the traps had been taken down and the barbed wire cleared away and she was being escorted in on his arm like nothing had ever been wrong in the world.

"Care to give me a tour?" she asked, and he said _of course_ and they gladly slid from one pretense to another.

Petyr did a marvelous job of performing that pretense, however. He pointed out the historical architecture of the drawing room, the artwork sourced from The Summer Isles, the way judicious lighting kept the dark floors and walls from making the house seem grim. Sansa nodded and looked and asked appropriate questions as they moved upstairs. She approved the lush carpeting and chuckled over the almost (almost) pretentious end tables in his office and pretended like she didn't brush her hand over his back when she passed. And then they were in his bedroom, with its high ceiling and charcoal bedding and the exquisite view from his balcony.

Sansa stopped before the grand windows, gazing at the city over the balcony. King's Landing was incandescent, laid out like something unknowable and lovely, like a slew of stars or a sept filled with candles.

"You have the view of a king," she murmured, watching the tiny lights flicker and shift as though the city itself were a great living thing only recently put to sleep.

"Better than a king," Petyr countered. "Generations of kings lived and died in the heart of the city, too choked by the pomp and tradition to realize both the smell and the view was shit."

Sansa gave him a look over her shoulder, trying not to smile. "Romantic."

He eased behind her, hands barely touching her elbows. "Romance doesn't get you far in this world."

"Oh? Not even a bit?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Maybe a bit," he allowed, then kissed her.

It wasn't hurried or rough or indelicate like it so easily could have been. It was a kiss that knew it had done the footwork and now deserved all the time in the world.

Sansa leaned into him, letting his tongue into her mouth as he pulled her back to the bed. She pushed off his suit jacket as she settled onto his lap, his hands guiding her legs around his waist, then drifting freely over her thighs and her hips, skating along her grey skirt. Her heart skipped as a hand pushed up under her skirt, fingertips skating over the thin fabric of her stockings, then, " _Oh_."

Petyr leaned back a little, just enough to look at her as he traced the strap of her garter belt. He raised his eyebrow as if only mildly curious, but Sansa could see that his pupils had blown wide, even in the low light.

"I might have been planning for this," she confessed, which earned her a wicked, wicked smile.

Petyr kissed her again, hands pressed against the bare skin of her thighs, teeth teasing her lip. Sansa undid the buttons of his shirt, just a few, just enough to let her kiss his neck, to tease his pulse point with her tongue.

Petyr pulled his hands from beneath her skirt and very carefully undid the button at the back of her neck. He undid the zipper of her skirt, carefully, carefully, taunting her with how devastatingly slow he went, eyes adoring every inch of her, roaming over the mundane places like her shoulders, her elbows, her waist. She held her breath when he pulled her shirt over her head.

"Stand up," he murmured, and Sansa obeyed, letting her clothes fall to the floor.

Petyr leaned back ever so slightly, eyes drinking her in. "Oh, sweetling, you spoil me," he murmured, and Sansa bit her cheek so she wouldn't smile too wide.

Sansa believed, in lingerie as in life, less was more. There were no excessive straps, no plunging necklines, no scant bits of mesh that killed all of the mystery before they really got going. The waistline was high, the cups modest, and in all the black lace was borderline conservative, save for a cheeky cutout between her breasts.

"Give us a turn," he said softly, voice just the slightest bit hoarse. Sansa turned on the spot, then was promptly pulled back onto Petyr's lap.

She shivered as his hands pressed against the bare skin of her back, pulling her closer. They had kissed so many times before, but this was different. Petyr had kissed her desperately and recklessly, and he had kissed her slowly and languidly, but each instance on stolen time. Now, though, it was just theirs, it was their time and their bodies and their choice to be together because they knew they could be great.

Sansa rolled her hips against him once, slow, earning a groan deep in his throat. She could feel his cock beneath her, sending an electric thrill from her toes to her scalp. Petyr leaned forward to kiss the bare patch of skin exposed between her breasts. Of course, he kissed her once, then gave her a careful, precise bite.

Sansa held him there, closing her eyes as his fingers slipped up her spine to the latch of her bra. He unhooked it and then he was pulling it off and then his mouth was on her nipple and Sansa very nearly ruined her façade of being cool and in control by letting out a terribly indecent moan.

Petyr maneuvered her onto the bed, giving her a filthy look even as he very delicately undid her garters. He trailed kisses down each leg, pulling the stockings down, down, down, and then off. She tried to prop herself up, tried to make some clever comment about _see,_ he was more than happy to get on his knees, but he just put a hand on her chest and eased her back down. Petyr slipped her underwear off, then pressed his mouth between her legs.

Sansa didn't silence her moan this time, couldn't, really, not when Petyr hoisted her legs over his shoulders and had his hands on her hips and his _tongue—_

Her hand found his hair as she bit her cheek and her hips angled up, terribly aware of the seams of his shirt against the bare skin of her thighs. It was just…so very _Petyr,_ wearing a dress shirt that was starched to perfection while Sansa was entirely naked, trying to not whimper as his rings skated tantalizingly over her thighs and hips and back, trying not to come as he licked her long and divine and slow.

Petyr kissed her hip when he was satisfied she was satisfied, then pushed himself back to his feet. He leaned over her, but Sansa stopped him with a foot on his hip. He raised an eyebrow, waiting, and she couldn't help but flush.

"Wait," she said, drawing her hands to her chin and covering her breasts in a late-stage attempt at modesty. She felt strangely shy at what she was about to ask, knowing it did not quite go with opera houses and kitchen counters and living room mirrors. "Could you—can you just...take off your belt and tell me with your eyes that you're going to fuck me?"

He laughed in surprise, hand resting on her shin. Then Petyr speared Sansa with a look that said he'd have torn her clothes off with his teeth, had she still been wearing any.

He was never going to let her hear the end of this.

She fumbled with his pants as he laid scorching kisses on her skin, yanking his belt free and pulling them off, then fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Petyr's hands were on her breasts as he kissed her, caressed her, worshipped her in the most carnal way he knew how.

Sansa finally managed to rid him of his underwear, holding her breath to keep from letting out a noise when she felt his cock against her. She tried to guide his hips to hers, sick of his teasing, but he weakly pushed her hands away.

"Sansa, no, I don't—" he began, but Sansa made him look at her, the tiniest tremor of nerves going through her chest.

"I'm on the pill," she murmured, strangely shy about this, too, even though they were naked on his bed, even though this was hardly their first sexual act. This was different, just like everything else.

Petyr's look of delighted surprise was almost as delicious as his _fuck, perfect,_ though not quite as exquisite as when he thrust home.

She couldn't give him up, Sansa knew that. She's known it for a long time, now, from the moment he'd broken her heart, from the moment he'd arrive to take her to the opera, maybe even from the moment he'd kissed her and she'd craved more. She would keep him as best as she was able, and she would keep him on her terms. If that meant weathering a media storm, fine, if it meant insults and snide remarks, fine, if it meant terrible arguments with her family, fine. She would do it because there was not a man alive that understood her better.

But she would fight, first. She would fight to keep Petyr and her family and her respect because they made her happy and she refused to lose anything else. The Sansa that let things be stolen from her hands was not the Sansa currently being fucked into the wall, the hard edges of the headboard biting into her hips as she wrapped her legs around his waist, clutched at his hair, smothered her moans against his neck.

Petyr eased her down to the pillows after they had finished, though he stayed close, pressing against her side. Sansa looked at Petyr, not saying anything, just listening for the sounds of plans changing and shifting around them. She listened for long enough that her breathing slowed and her skin grew cold and Petyr gave her a curious smile.

"You seem to be planning something."

"No," she corrected, kissing his fingertips and then rolling off the bed. "Just thinking about what's already here."

"That is?" he asked, watching her slip into his discarded dress shirt. "And where are you going?"

"I left my bag by the door," she explained, then braced to go downstairs. The trip was, as she'd feared, cold and not made better by being largely naked.

Petyr was still on the bed when she returned, though he had retrieved his phone. "And what's so pressing about your handbag?" he asked, not looking up from the screen.

"Makeup wipes."

That did earn his full attention.

"I told you," she said, striving to sound casual. "I planned ahead."

She had wondered if bringing such a large bag to dinner would be a giveaway, a hint that she'd packed a few essentials in case everything turned out like she'd hoped, but his appreciative look said he hadn't suspected a thing. Sansa couldn't help but smile as she ducked into the bathroom.

Sansa removed her makeup, listening to Petyr tidy the bedroom. She had moved to brushing her teeth when he stepped into the bathroom, having put on a dark sleep shirt and underwear.

"How domestic," he said, stopping behind her and wrapping his arms around her middle. Sansa spat out a mouthful of toothpaste.

"I figured you've seen things more terrifying than a redhead without mascara," she said, watching him in the mirror.

"The toothpaste might be a stretch."

She rolled her eyes and tried to elbow him, but it didn't have much spirit. She rinsed and wiped her mouth as Petyr chuckled.

"I've seen less attractive things, certainly. Though I'd never do you the discredit of saying you aren't always fearsome."

Sansa let herself smile, leaning back into his chest. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, like he'd forgotten it in the minutes she'd been away.

It was soft. This moment was softer than anything that had ever existed between them, like bits of willow fluff caught on the summer air. And, perhaps strangest of all, she liked it. She liked this brief moment where she could rest in his arms and that was all, they were there for the sheer pleasure of it.

"I have a few contacts in the Vale I can reach out to," he murmured, still holding her, his face still in her hair. "If Robb can impress them, you'll have an easier time convincing the southron ministers to defect."

"I didn't think they'd defy the Lannisters," Sansa murmured, lacing her hands over his.

Petyr looked at her again, expression positively devious. "Tywin's too arrogant to think we'd try the same thing as him, and he'll certainly never expect us to do it even better. Besides, southron men follow power, not families. If Robb can gain a following, they'll all fall in line. You'll have holdouts like Tarly, but if you get the rest, no one will care about him."

"We'll have to deal with the Boltons, make sure they don't sap our strength in the north while we court the south," she murmured. She should talk to Margaery, too, while she was at it, see what it would take to soften up Mace.

"Oh, I haven't forgotten about them, don't you worry. We'll take care of them."

Soft was nice, Sansa decided, turning around to kiss Petyr on the mouth. But a man that promised her the heads of her enemies was very nice, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I didn't need to spend half a page talking about the good work of one daenerys targaryen, but I figure I need to be the change I want to see in the world, and if she doesn't get a reasonable and happy ending in the show, boy _howdy_ will she get one here


	11. damned thrice over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing amuses me quite like the 'the starks are alright' tag becoming increasingly untrue as the story goes on
> 
> (also the long delay was because I was feverishly writing a slew of supplementary content which will be posted shortly. I did not forget about you, I was hand-crafting prime artisanal fluff, drama, and angst.)

Arya's hug outside the airport terminal crushed the air out of Sansa's lungs. She was no taller than Sansa remembered, but she was sturdier, strengthened by all of the long-distance skiing and fight training. Arya had never been feminine, from the moment she learned how to run and climb and muddy the skirts Catelyn futilely tried to wrangle her into. But she seemed to have finally grown into herself, with her hair chopped into a blunt bob and the eye-blindingly neon sports shoes she'd been sent by some brand as an act of PR. She wasn't the rambunctious little kid Sansa had remembered even up to a year ago, restless and irreverent as they walked down the hall to Ned's hospital room.

They had fought almost the entire time, bickering back and forth until Catelyn had taken Sansa aside to remind her that she and Robb were _only_ in Winterfell for a few days, couldn't she at least _try_ to get along with her sister?

But now, as they loaded Arya's sparse luggage into the trunk and left the airport and grabbed food on the way home, things were good. Arya talked about the flight, the tour she was thinking about doing in Braavos, how excited she was to see Robb again. She showed Sansa pictures anytime the car came to a stop and she played loud, boisterous music in a slew of languages over the speakers. There were traces of the energetic little girl Sansa remembered, but somewhere between the new ear piercings and the brutal honesty she used to punch the world into submission, somewhere there was a hardness, a strangeness Sansa couldn't account for.

But now was not the time to worry about that. Sansa had promised herself that there would be no arguing while Arya was in town. They had all decided at some point that they would commemorate Ned's passing while they were together, instead of waiting for the actual date in two weeks. She and Arya were getting along just fine with a bit of distance and plenty of maturity between them, and Robb could call a ceasefire for their father, surely.

And it was nice, the first day. Arya and Sansa laughed and talked like they hadn't in years, and Arya complimented the city and Sansa's house and admitted she _might_ have even liked King's Landing, if not for all the shitty politics. Sansa laughed and agreed and asked about Bran and Rickon and how Catelyn was doing, _really,_ and if Arya had heard from Jon recently, and for a day, everything was fine.

And then the next day came, and so did Robb, and it was still fine. They ordered food and watched a movie on Sansa's floor and she could almost believe nothing was wrong. They were normal siblings spending time together. It wasn't because their father had been dead for a year, Sansa and Robb didn't speak to each other because they were listening to Arya, Arya only asked surface level questions about their lives because she knew everything already, there could be nothing amiss.

Arya excused herself to the bathroom, and just when Sansa was starting to believe they might just actually make it, Robb looked at her and said, "Talisa's pregnant."

She blinked at him. Blinked again.

"What?"

"Talisa is pregnant."

No. No, no, that couldn't be right, Robb couldn't have—he wasn't so reckless, so _selfish_ —what was she going to do—he couldn't—they weren't—

"How could you let that happen?" she asked, and she was surprised that her voice was so brittle. She'd meant it to sound flat, emotionless, unable to be touched and therefore unable to be hurt.

He glanced away, expression embarrassed and chagrined. "It just—things like this just happen."

"No, they _don't_ ," she said, getting angry, now, because both she _and_ Petyr had _repeatedly_ had the foresight not to have unprotected sex because they knew having sex led to having children and she could not _believe_ Robb had done this.

He gave her a look, but Sansa shook her head, hiss-whispering at him so Arya wouldn't hear.

" _No,_ don't give me that look because these things don't _get_ to happen to us, not if we want a life after! You are too smart to play the victim here, because I _told_ you and I _trusted_ you and you may have just ruined your career and I cannot _believe_ you are telling me this right now!"

"It happened the first time," he said quietly, and thank the _gods_ he had the intelligence to look contrite. "We didn't—we didn't plan to do anything, we were drunk, I thought—I'm sorry. If I'd known, I would have taken care of it."

"How?" she laughed, hard and sad. "Robb, if this _ever_ got out, tomorrow or in twenty years, if people found out that Ned Stark's son made his mistress— _yes_ it's ugly, because that's what they'll call her—made his mistress have an abortion, you're _finished_."

Abortion was a tricky subject for the Starks, the politicians especially. Ned's faith in the Old Gods of the Forest was traditional and simple, holding to the more minimal, animist beliefs of old. More modern interpretations of the faith, however, condemned abortion, and since modern worshippers made a sizeable portion of Ned's voter base, he'd had to take a sterner stance than he would have liked. Privately, he believed there was a more nuanced approach to be made, and that things should be judged on a case-by-case basis rather than on blanket policy.

Robb held similar beliefs but had the marvelous fortune of being damned thrice over. First, of course, Robb was posed in Ned's image and did not yet have the capital or history to make any serious deviations from the past. Second, if he asked Talisa to have an abortion without the public ever knowing she existed, it would be only too easy for their enemies to paint him as doing something wrong, perhaps hiding even uglier secrets than anyone could have dreamed. And finally, Rob worshipped not only the old gods but also the Seven, who were tragically more orthopraxic and even less tolerant of abortion. If he violated the trust of his voters in such an intimate way, he would never get a single religious person, northern or southron, to vote for him again.

Robb looked at her, guilty and scared and begging for help. "I _know_ , I just—I'm doing everything I can. She only just told me, Sansa. She's scared, I'm scared, I—" He drew in a slow breath. "There's no malice in it, Sansa, just mistakes."

She laughed because that was the cruelest bit of understatement she'd ever heard.

"I know you won't approve," he said, shifting a little, straightening himself as he prepared to deliver this final piece of terrible news, "but I'm going to ask her to marry me."

"You can't," she said, somehow unsurprised. "Robb, _no,_ you can't _legitimize_ every critique people will throw at you before they've even said them!"

"You're not going to change my mind. I've thought it over, and I know every reason why I shouldn't."

"And yet you're doing this anyway."

"Yes."

"Why are you even telling me?" she asked, shaking her head. "What's the point if you knew I'd disagree?"

"Because I don't want to fight with you anymore," he said, looking her in the eye and meaning every word. Guilty and scared he may be, but he was no coward, she could give him that. "I'm tired of keeping things from you, even if you hate them."

"Robb, you can't do this to me, you can't do this to _us._ "

"It's what I think I need to do."

Sansa laughed again, shaking her head because otherwise she'd cry.

"What's so funny?" Arya asked, walking back into the room. Sansa looked at her and shrugged her shoulders, smiling, damn her, because that really was her best defense after all.

"Robb just told me something funny, is all," she said, and by the end of the sentence, she could almost believe it. "Political stuff."

"Ew," Arya said, continuing on to the kitchen. "You can start the movie, I'm gonna refill my water bottle."

Sansa pressed play, feeling Robb's eyes on her. She looked at him but only saw all her hard work slipping away for nothing.

He left not long after the movie was done, laughing and apologizing to Arya when she begged him to spend the night. He promised that he would love to stay, but she had to get up early for the bus and she would just want to stay awake talking to him, and there was still work for him to do at home, and he had to walk Grey Wind before bed, besides. Robb never lied, but sometimes he came very, very close.

Arya hugged him tight, burying her face into his chest for a long moment before she let him leave.

"I wish he'd come north more often," she murmured, watching the door like she could see him through it. "He promised he would, when he left."

"Give it time," Sansa said. She didn't feel the words in her mouth. It was almost like listening to a recording of her own voice, calm and distant from everything she was feeling. "It's been a rough year. Let him settle in, then he'll be up all the time."

"Yeah, I know," Arya said, though her voice was taut like she didn't understand, not really. "Just had to get past the first year, that's what Mom's always saying. Just have to get through it."

"It'll be easier to forget, with time," Sansa agreed.

Arya turned, cutting Sansa with a sharp look. "I don't _want_ to forget. He was our _dad._ "

"That's not what I meant," Sansa said, stung, because it was the _pain_ she wanted to forget, not _Ned._ She wanted to bury it so deeply that it never managed to take root, that it died cold and alone in the dark and Sansa would emerge fine.

But she wasn't fine. She hadn't been fine since Ned's funeral, since his death, since the diagnosis. She had smiled and nodded and made arrangements and helped Robb and gone back to work as usual and now Robb had quite possibly just ruined _everything_ and it fell to her to try and fix it because perfect, _perfect_ Sansa Stark had everything worked out just fine but she didn't, Sansa was not okay and it devastated her that no one could see it. It devastated her that her own _sister_ was willing to believe she was so okay that she didn't mind her father being dead.

Arya watched her a long moment, the world's judgement in her eyes. It wasn't loose, yet, merely held in reserve until she had a few more facts to make her decision.

Because, of course, Sansa was the one to be judged. Sansa, who had never left a mess for her siblings to mop up after, who had moved the earth to help her brother into his career, Sansa, who was not risking _everything_ because she had gotten the wrong girl pregnant because it was either that or work herself to death because she didn't know how to cope with her father being dead, Sansa, who just wanted to sit down and cry because then, _maybe,_ things might turn out right.

She had to get out of there. The air had never felt so hostile in her own home, so corrupted by the fact that Ned had died and his children were intent on disappointing him one by one.

Sansa walked back to the living room, picking up the dishes they had left on the floor.

"I have to pop out to see a friend," she said casually, the words thrown over her shoulder like an afterthought. "I'll be back late, but don't worry, I won't wake you."

"Is everything okay?" Arya asked, voice carefully flat. "It's pretty late."

She wasn't so good at lying, at hiding what she thought and felt, unlike Sansa. Then again, she'd never had to be.

Funny. Sansa couldn't remember the first time Arya had felt the need to lie to her.

"Oh, it's nothing," Sansa said, even though things hadn't been okay for the Starks in a long, long time.

* * *

She didn't ask Petyr if she could come over. She didn't pack a bag, didn't come up with a pretense, just put on a coat and walked out the door.

It was a presumption that she hated to make, but it was one she could not survive without. There wasn't another person alive in this city she could think of that would look at her without pity or hunger or malice. Sansa didn't need to feel mighty or impressive or sophisticated or untamed, just then, she just needed to feel worth something other than judgement or disappointment or annoyance or pity _._

Petyr was obviously surprised when he opened the door, but he took her in stride as he always did. He murmured something clever about the weather or the city or her not being able to stay away. She wasn't really listening. She kept waiting for the buzzing panic in her head to fade.

And it did, a little, as he took off her coat like always and then led her back to the living room and she admired the bookshelves once more. Petyr had been working at one of the couches, his laptop and a slew of papers in front of him on the coffee table.

"Sit," he said, not looking at her. "You make me nervous when you pace."

"I'm not pacing."

"Prowl, then."

She shot him a smile over her shoulder, but it flaked away faster than she would have liked.

Sansa bit her cheek and went to sit by him, not saying anything. He let her remain in silence for one, two, three minutes before he asked, "Why are you here, Sansa?"

"Arya's in town," she said. "I picked her up yesterday. We spent the evening with Robb."

"A cozy family reunion, then."

"More or less."

"And what does less look like?"

She smoothed her hair over one shoulder, buying herself time, wishing he'd just kiss her and accept she was there and never question it.

"Nothing, it's fine," she said. "Arya's ego can just be a bit stifling, is all. Won too many gold medals."

Petyr looked at her for a moment, a half-smile on his face. "I would find that more reassuring if I didn't see you searching for a lie."

"I thought you liked the way I lied," she said, tucking her feet beneath her.

"I like the way you tell the truth, as well.'

"This again," she murmured, tilting her head, resting her arm on the back of the couch.

"This again." To his credit, Petyr kept his gaze on her eyes, not the buttons of her collar or her chest or legs or even her mouth. Perfect Petyr, and his gentleman's manners. "And always, until you stop feeling the need to lie."

"Why this fixation on truth?" she asked, leaning forward. His focus didn't shift. "You don't strike me as a particularly trusting man."

"I'm very trusting when the occasion calls for it. And I would never do you the injustice of accepting you at face value."

"Shameless flattery."

"Perhaps." He studied her a moment, then said, softer, "I can't help you, Sansa, if you won't tell me how."

Sansa drew in a slow breath. She knew that. She knew he wanted to help her, but she just—it was ridiculous and nonsensical but there was a difference in asking for help to destroy someone and asking for help to stop feeling sad over her family falling apart and she had a persistent fear that if she ever revealed she was _not_ indelibly tough or intelligent or collected or a thousand other things, they would leave her. Again, even now, she was afraid Petyr would leave her.

She let out the breath.

"I'm not in the habit of exposing my throat," she said finally.

"It's not exposed if there's no one here to cut it."

Sansa watched him, searching for any trace of cunning in his eyes before she said, "My father died a year ago. A week to the day, almost."

"I'm sorry for your loss. He was an impressive man."

Sansa laughed, the sound still bringing no relief. "He stood against almost everything you do. He probably tried to pass legislation against you directly."

Petyr gave the tiniest head tilt in acquiescence. "Once or twice. But I _am_ sorry for your loss. It's a devastation, to watch those you care about be hurt."

He brushed a hand over her cheek, letting it rest against her neck. Sansa leaned into it, closing her eyes.

"Why are you here, Sansa?" he asked again, softer.

"To forget."

"I hope you didn't come here out of a misplaced need for a paternal figure."

She glared at him and pushed his hand away. "I _came_ here because I can't stand to be surrounded by a bunch of sad Starks. I just—"

Sansa broke off before her voice cracked. She looked away from him, letting her gaze fall on the dark windows. She only saw herself reflected on the couch, mouth pinched, eyes sad. Sad, sad Sansa Stark, hiding a year's worth of misery behind her damnably perfect smile.

Petyr traced her hairline with his thumb, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear.

"I think I can help with that," he murmured.

"What, as a reward for _finally_ being honest?"

"As a gift," he murmured, and Sansa was grateful that he gave her the option to back out at any time. She could pretend, at least, that she didn't need him.

She didn't need him to kiss her slowly, or to undo her collar and put his hands up her shirt and kiss her neck. She didn't need him to lead her upstairs, to take off her clothes, to leave off the lights, to tell her that no one and nothing existed outside of those four walls, outside of them. She didn't _need_ any of it.

But she had it, and Sansa supposed that was nice.

She lay in the dark next to him, looking at the muted walls and furniture and decorations, a den of shadows that swallowed up her insecurities and kept them safe.

Was that what Robb found in Talisa? When he kissed her, the first time, had he just been searching for someone that didn't mind his legacy and his position and his dead father? Had he escaped into the ease of the secret, then found himself missing the comfort when she was gone? And where did that leave him, now that she wasn't a pleasant retreat from life but a terrifying confirmation of it?

_I'm going to marry her._

He'd been resolute when he'd said it, clearly the result of long hours of weary contemplation rather than a love-drunk impulse. He believed with his whole soul that this was the only answer, the only reasonable solution he could allow himself to take.

And it was, for him. It was noble and self-sacrificing and so very _Robb._ So very Ned. Just like always, they believed the best action was the straightforward action, tenacity and courage always winning out.

Sansa knew there were other ways, crueler ways, more finite ways. She could make Talisa disappear. She could show up at her door late at night, that night, with a plane ticket and a threat and make the woman vanish. Talisa would not have the baby, Talisa would not stay in Westeros, she would go back to Volantis and do all of that wonderful philanthropy she loved. Who knew, maybe she'd even connect with Daenerys Targaryen and do her good work there, Sansa could probably scrounge up a few connections and get them in a room together. Sansa didn't know Talisa very well, but she suspected she was a problem that could be silenced through guilt and distance and perhaps even a little money.

And if Sansa did that, she would never be able to speak to her brother again. Again, the anxiety cut through her, the bone deep hurt at the thought of losing another member of her family, this time not to sickness but to her own ambition. She couldn't do it, she couldn't _lose_ him. But she couldn't let Robb fall on his own sword, she had to protect him the best way she knew how. But she couldn't do this alone, she couldn't possibly stand to be _alone._

She rolled onto her side, facing the wall.

"I can feel you thinking," Petyr said beside her, tracing his thumb down her side.

Sansa held her hands against her chest, allowed herself five seconds of paranoid doubt, then said, "Robb got a girl pregnant on accident."

Petyr was silent for a few agonizing seconds, his hand falling still. Then he asked, "When did you find this out?"

"Tonight."

"And this is only a problem because it is Talisa Maegyr, I'm assuming."

Sansa bit her lip, perversely thankful Petyr was clever enough to guess the broad strokes without much effort.

"Yes."

Another few seconds of silence, then, "It's an interesting development, certainly."

"It's not _interesting,_ it might destroy his _life!_ " she snapped, turning to look at him.

He smoothed his hand flat against her stomach to calm her. "Tell me what you're thinking, Sansa."

She huffed out a breath. "Either we bury this and risk it coming out later, causing untold damage, or we bite the bullet and announce the relationship publicly."

"How would you announce it?"

"Have them associate more broadly in public. Make it look like they were introduced through my mother's circles instead of a shitty photoshoot that turned her into a prop. After a few weeks, before the pregnancy really starts to show, announce the wedding. Make it clear they kept the relationship private until they knew they were serious about each other, have the wedding in the North where there are fewer eyes, then just…weather the fallout. Robb will appear weaker than ever, more inconsistent to his voters and likely distracted to his enemies. We'll have to fight so much harder to be taken seriously, to be seen as reliable and valid, but it will legitimize his relationship with Talisa. As much as we can, anyways."

"And if you were to bury it?"

"This goes no farther," she said, shaking her head, the words as flat and cold as when she had sworn to destroy the Lannisters and the Boltons and every other monster that enjoyed making people bleed. "She gets rid of the baby, she goes back to Volantis, she never hears or speaks of Robb again. I do this all tonight and I bury it so deep that no one will ever know it happened. Tomorrow will be a new day, and it will look like none of this ever happened."

That was what kingmakers did, wasn't it? They ripped the flesh off anything that stood in their way and then they spat out the blood so it wouldn't stain their teeth.

"It sounds more certain than just letting them be," Petyr said mildly. "I know a few people that might help, though I think there's more to it than that."

"Robb will never speak to me again. I'll save his career, but he'll know it was me, it _has_ to be me. And he'll hate me for it, he'll hate what I've become, and then the kingmaker will be without her king. But that's the smartest play," Sansa added quickly, speeding past any hurt or pain or doubt she might have. "He'll have a career to go back to, I can move on to someone else, keep building my portfolio, we'll land on our feet. Inconvenient girls disappear from King's Landing all the time."

Petyr shrugged, hand falling still against her stomach. "You're not wrong."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm convinced that it's a good plan," Petyr said, finally looking back at her. "But I'm less certain it's something that _you_ should do."

"You would do it."

He laughed and gave another little shrug, which was not disagreement. "He's not my brother, and you, Sansa, do best when you are not alone."

She gave him a hard look, wishing she had something clever to say, wishing she could prove that she was not vulnerable to anything, and yet also appreciating that she did not have to pretend any of it was true.

"Things might honestly be worse for him if he leaves you," Petyr mused, imagining the future Sansa so dreaded. "He'd never survive these waters without you. Not like Ned. Things have changed too much in King's Landing, and he's not strong enough in the North to rely on brute force."

"He's fully prepared to end his career over this," Sansa murmured. "He didn't say it, but I could see it in his eyes. He said he was going to marry her. I don't know if he loves her or if that's just the noble thing to do, but he's ready to marry her and everything will be so _impossibly_ hard after."

"Marriages aren't bad things," he said, giving that shrug of an eyebrow raise he'd mastered so well.

"Then are when your father-in-law is a borderline _terrorist."_

"People love weddings, though," Petyr pointed out. "Make it like a fairy story and they'll trip over themselves to praise it."

"Maybe. I just—everything is just so… _chaotic_ , now," she sighed, rolling over to face him properly, curling up like she could hide herself from everything that lingered outside.

"What is chaos but an opportunity?"

She scowled at him. "These opportunities are shit."

Petyr smiled and pulled her closer. "Only if you think in the most rigid way possible."

Sansa looked at her hands, curled between their chests, barely there in the dark.

"You can soften anything, if you have the right point of view," he continued. "Emphasize her career in humanitarianism, make it clear she is estranged from her family. She's a lost soul in want of a home."

"You know it won't be that easy."

"Probably not."

"I'm scared about what he'll say when he finds out about us," she admitted, not daring to look Petyr in the face. She kept focus on her hands, not ready to read whatever was hiding in his face.

"I'd imagine gratitude for helping him with his own romantic pursuits might go a long way in that."

She looked up then, biting her lip. "So, I tell him to do this, to go ahead and marry Talisa."

"I think it has the least collateral."

"And it'll work out."

"If we both use every tool we have, it will turn out better than otherwise. But you can't leave things to chance anymore."

"Okay. Okay," she whispered. She looked Petyr in the face and she wasn't sure what to say, so she kissed him in thanks then rolled over to grab her phone. Sansa texted Robb before she could second guess herself.

_Talk to Talisa and figure out a time we can all meet. If we're going to do this, we'd better do it right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep that's right, we all thought this was a modern politics au, when secretly it's been a no pseudo incest au the whole time eyooooo


	12. supposed to always be there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeey if you were curious about robb's side of the story and wanted some fluff and angst to balance out this naughty clever boots scheming, I have good news! I wrote another companion piece in a fevered state and emerged from the other side with an unquantifiable love for robb and talisa, and I am all the better for it.

Sansa woke the next morning to her alarm going off.

"What is _that_?" Petyr grumbled, rolling over as she struggled to silence her phone.

"Sorry, must've left it on by accident," she muttered, finally turning the alarm off. "It's supposed to be off on weekends."

It was strange that she'd set it for today, usually Sansa didn't adjust her alarms except for something—

"Oh shit," she whispered, then threw herself out of bed. " _Oh shit."_

 _"What."_ Petyr looked at her as she scrambled for her clothes, the sort of calm that assessed how bad the damage was before he moved to act.

" _Arya,_ I need to take her to the bus station, she has this _camp—_ "

She yanked on her shirt without bothering with her bra—she'd keep her coat on, Arya would obviously notice it was the same outfit from yesterday, _fine,_ where the hell were her shoes—

"Will you make it on time?"

She checked her phone again. " _Yes,_ if I leave _right now_ and she's ready when I get home."

Petyr handed over her skirt from where it had been tossed on the floor, and she yanked it on, fumbling into her shoes. She sailed out of the room with a frantic _okay I'll call you!,_ skipping down the steps and snatching her coat and bag from the entryway.

The morning was offensively peaceful as Sansa threw her car into drive and tore down the street. She shouldn't have let herself do this, how could she have let herself _do_ this? Chaos was an opportunity, sure, for Sansa to land herself into complete _shit_.

She called Arya, fingers thrumming anxiously on the steering wheel as she waited at the stoplight, a thousand lies and promises and excuses on her tongue.

The call rang out. Sansa bit back a growl of irritation, waiting to be directed to her voicemail.

"Hey, Arya, sorry, something came up last second, but I'm on my way home, be ready to go when I get there."

She hung up, wishing the anxiety would leave her stomach.

She pulled into the driveway and honked, then waited. A minute passed, then another. Sansa growled to herself and got out of the car, hurrying to the door to yell at Arya to get her ass _out_ here—

She unlocked the door, shouting for her sister, then noticed the timbre of the silence. There was something eerily calm about her house, now, like the whole building was holding its breath, like it had lost the important things to fill it.

Sansa walked cautiously into the kitchen, drawn by the vague sign of life that was a juice container left out on the counter. A note had been scrawled on a sticky pad, the words fast and careless.

_A friend picked me up._

She stared at it for a long moment, then put the note down. She walked back out to her car, turned it off, went back inside. She put away the juice. She put away her coat and her shoes and her bag and walked back to her bedroom and turned on the shower.

Arya had made the bed in the guestroom, she noticed, the corners folded under, the pillows all in place.

Maybe it was shitty of her, she thought, standing in the shower, wishing the water would melt the rock that had formed in her throat, but she couldn't remember a time when Arya was more pulled together than she was.

Sansa climbed out of the shower a little later, the hollow place in her chest not fixed by the hot water or clean hair. She wasn't surprised to see she'd forgotten about her makeup, her mascara smudging horribly like she'd been crying. She wiped it off, almost wishing she had.

It was small, she knew that. In the grand scheme of things, in a month's time, Sansa would not feel guilt that Arya had needed to make alternate arrangements to reach the bus terminal on time. But for right now, Sansa could not escape the sickened guilt of not even being able to do the _one thing_ her sister had asked of her in over a year.

 _Did you make it_? Petyr texted. She looked at the message for a long moment, then wrote back, _no._

She pulled on her favorite long socks, jeans worn to softness, and a grey sweater that brought out her eyes. She got something to eat, brushed her teeth, put on her makeup. Normal day, this was a normal day. Then she called Petyr because she could no longer lie to herself and stay in her house with its wailing echo of regret.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Can I…can I come over?" she asked softly. "I just…I don't want to be alone."

"Of course," he said, and that was it.

She prepared a little better, this time, bringing her phone charger and a water bottle, but that was all. When she returned, Petyr had left the door unlocked so she could just walk in. He was in the living room, yet again working on his computer. He didn't comment that she had been here no less than an hour before, didn't bring up Arya, didn't question the hurt in her eyes. The most Petyr did was bite down a smile and say, "I don't think I've ever seen you in jeans, before."

"It's a rare occasion."

He, of course, wore slacks and a collared shirt, the first two buttons suitably undone to show he was at ease.

There was something reassuring in it, she thought, the way he took her in stride as always, the way he let her curl up against his side, the way he knew that today, at least, she could not survive being questioned or challenged or charmed or tricked. So, instead, they spent the morning just…existing together. Sansa sat next to him like the night before, but this time without the expectation that he would at some point remove her clothes and kiss her senseless. She surfed her phone and read one of his myriad books and texted Margaery to see when she could do lunch and talked with Petyr about suitably safe topics like work, gossip, and the occasional tidbit that something serious might be developing far away.

By the time Robb texted her back, the seeping misery in Sansa's chest had faded to something smaller, more containable. He gave her a date, a time, and a promise that he and Talisa would do anything she said, thank you, Sansa, really, he was sorry for everything but he knew he could count on her.

At least that was _one_ sibling she had done right by, never mind that she had fully considered failing him, too.

"Robb responded," she said, sighing as she put her phone down. "They'll let me manage this."

"And what's your first step?"

"Create as much distance between Talisa and her family as possible. We need legitimacy, _now,_ from as many sources as possible. I'll rebrand Talisa from the ground up, if I have to. I'm done waiting for someone else's approval."

"Good girl," Petyr said, wrapping his arm around her and kissing her temple. "If you need any help, I know a few people that can manage the details."

"We'll see," she sighed, leaning into his side. "I barely know how this is going to play out, yet. There are so many variables."

"Opportunities, Sansa, just like I said."

Sansa let herself focus on the rhythm of his breathing, slowly trying to match it with her own.

"I'm going to tell Robb about us," she murmured. "He needs to know, going through this."

"It's your right."

"Thank you, Petyr," she whispered, unable to make herself look at him, unable to tear herself away. "Thank you for all of this."

"Of course, my love," he said softly. "Yours is a future I'd very much like to grow."

* * *

The next week dripped by. Talisa wasn't free until the weekend, leaving Robb and Sansa to skirt each other in the office. They were no longer fighting, thankfully, but they both held the pervading fear that the slightest word might expose their secret. The most Sansa dared let herself say on the subject was ordering Robb to tell Catelyn. He returned from the phone call with a grim mouth and a ' _she…wasn't super happy'_ that Sansa had the grace not to roll her eyes at.

And, of course, with the weekend came Arya. Sansa waited for the end of her camp to come like it was an execution date, her breath catching any time she thought about facing her sister. She didn't tell anyone what had happened, couldn't, really, not with the crucial fact that Sansa had broken down at the memory of her dead father and had run away the only way she knew how.

So, she waited, and waited, and made sure to be at the bus terminal twenty minutes early.

Arya's bus arrived on time, but she didn't get off. Sansa watched the doors, skin prickling, then finally called her. The call went to voicemail, _hey, this is Arya, you missed me but leave your number and I'll call you back,_ bright and friendly and scraping against Sansa's skin. She let out an annoyed breath, then called again. Arya dismissed it with a text.

_got a ride with a friend_

_Okay,_ Sansa responded, feeling strangely like she'd disappointed her sister twice without even trying. _Dinner will be ready at 6._

Arya wasn't home by six. Sansa called and was sent to voicemail. She ate alone, called again, was rejected to voicemail again. She went to bed, called in the morning. Arya's voicemail had been changed to include the charming addition, _'Sansa, stop calling me, I'm not dead._ '

Sansa got ready for work, not quite sure how she'd adjusted so quickly to not being on speaking terms with one of her siblings.

She didn't let herself dwell on it. Talisa and Robb were coming over, and she busied herself with cleaning the house, researching Talisa's family as much as she could, and not fixating on the sister that was not there.

Talisa was, by all rights, as lovely as the reports made her out to be. Her smile was wide, despite her nerves, and she didn't hesitate to shake Sansa's hand.

"Thank you for letting us come over," she said, and Sansa couldn't trace a hint of her Volantene accent. "Robb said you had doubts."

"Concerns," Sansa said with a smile of her own. "I just want to make sure this all goes off as smoothly as possible."

"Yes," she agreed, her warmth dimming for a moment of self-sabotaging guilt. "I'm sorry for the trouble I caused."

"I don't blame you," Sansa said, pointedly not looking at her brother. He cleared his throat and gestured to the living room, muttering that they should sit.

In all, it wasn't a particularly eventful meeting. Sansa asked the obvious questions—how far along was the pregnancy, who all knew, what was Talisa's relationship with her father, if there was anything, _anything_ in her past they would need to account for, cover, or reconfigure. She also made sure to emphasize that this first awareness of each other was _not_ , in fact, at a horrendously sexist photoshoot, but through word of mouth by other people. Robb caught wind of her through Catelyn's philanthropy circles, while Talisa's political connections praised the Young Wolf in the North.

By the end of the second hour, Sansa was almost starting to believe they could do this. Just as Robb had said, Talisa was nothing like her father. She wanted to heal the world, not reform it with harsh rhetoric and firebombs, and agreed with the shape of Robb's political agenda. She knew how to sit and what not to say to make a point and probably could always find her mark if placed before a camera.

It didn't hurt that Robb practically glowed around her. It wasn't just infatuation tempered with duty, like Sansa had feared. He would gladly throw down everything from life, honor, and limb to make sure she was happy, safe, and taken care of. Every time he touched her hand or got that soft look in his eyes as she spoke, any time he announced with his body ' _I love you, I love you, I'm going to marry you, I love you,_ ', it made Sansa's stomach give a funny sort of leap. It was doubtful that she and Petyr could light up a room like that, and she feared needing that one bit of evidence to convince her family, to convince Robb, that what they had was real. Neither she nor Petyr were bonfires, they were time-darkened steel, sturdy and reliable and tucked just out of sight.

"Okay," she said, putting her hands on her lap. "I think that's all that I have."

"Alright," Robb said, blinking in surprise. "I thought this was going to be an all-day thing."

"Oh, don't kid yourself, it's going to be an all- _month_ thing, but I think for now, at least, we're good."

"Would you like to talk to Robb in private?" Talisa asked, an unexpected bit of charity.

"Oh, I mean, I don't want to leave you out," Sansa said.

"No, I know there's probably more you would like to say that would be awkward in front of other people." Talisa shook her head with a smile that said while she expected the best of people, she knew exactly how they worked. "I know he's…hm, _pressed your buttons_ on this one."

"Tal, _hey,_ I thought you were on my side," Robb said, not quite able to hide the nervous edge in his laugh.

"So is she," Talisa said, giving him a pleasant but unmoving smile. Sansa bit down her own smile, thinking that she would handle Robb just fine.

"Uh, yeah, if it's okay with you, there are a few things I'd like to go over," Sansa said, rising from her seat.

Robb reluctantly followed her to the bedroom, leaning against the wall. "So, what do you think?" he asked, eyes hopeful and wary.

"I think we can do this," she said, and the relief that flooded through him almost hurt. He slumped against the wall, hand on his chest, and Sansa realized that maybe he hadn't been glib or dismissive or ignorant about what he was doing at all. Maybe her brother had simply packed away all of his doubts and fears so that they could not be seen, just as she had done.

"You're sure?" he asked, looking at her. "You're sure that we can make this all work? I might have a future after this?"

"If we're very, _very_ careful," she said, raising a finger in warning. "It's not going to be easy, Robb, not even for a second. Not if we keep tying our hands behind our back."

"I'm not going cheat my way to victory," he told her, shaking his head.

Sansa nodded, letting go of any spikes of hurt or offense that might have formed at his words. She was the one that had demanded what was so wrong with cutting the hearts out of their enemies, after all.

"We won't do anything we'll be ashamed to admit," she said, because it was as much a promise to Robb as it was a warning to Petyr. "But we're not going to be well-behaved children anymore."

"Okay."

"Okay." She took a breath, preparing herself. "One more thing, you should—"

"Wait, there's something else."

"What?" She looked at him in alarm, words lost. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, and a nervous smile spread across his face. "Nothing, this…this is really, _really_ good. Stannis Baratheon came to see me yesterday."

"Stannis—the _prime minister_?" Sansa stared at him, mind blank from shock. " _He_ came to see you."

" _Yes,_ " Robb said, grabbing hold of her arm in excitement. "His man, Davos Seaworth, he's been talking to me, minor stuff, I just thought he was a good person to make friends with, right? Be nice when we're seated together at a few dinners, ask about his kids when I see him around the ministry, stuff like that. But then Stannis _himself_ came by the apartment, motorcade and all."

" _When,_ " Sansa demanded, wondering when on earth Robb had begun speaking to Davos in the first place. Recently, it sounded like, but she couldn't recall ever seeing them together. Perhaps she'd been paying Petyr too much attention.

"A few days back. I haven't told anyone, I wanted to clear it with you first."

"Me? Why—Talisa," she said, the pieces finally clicking together through her shock. "You wanted to make sure things were still politically viable."

"I told him about her, about what I would be facing," Robb said, all blue-eyed candor like she remembered, and it made her heart twist. She had missed this. She missed being in lockstep with her family. "He said that as long as we sorted it out, he didn't care. He was impressed with the morality bill, Sansa, he liked everything about it."

"Even the way it failed?" she asked doubtfully.

"The work was good," Robb insisted. "He liked how clever it was, how much farther it went than everything that rammed the subject head on. He said the country needed more minds like ours, protecting the old values but also understanding the modern needs of the people. This is our in, Sansa, _this_ is how we make things work!"

"Minds like ours," she echoed faintly, hardly hearing her brother as her brain skittered on to mights and maybes. The path to bringing Robb to power, to make him prime minister had just become much, _much_ easier, a thing that she could practically _feel_ in her grasp, now that Stannis Baratheon had taken a vested interested in his growth.

Except.

"Yes, I told him about the work you'd done, how you were working on a plan for Talisa. Sansa, do you know what this _means?_ With the backing of the prime minister, everything we wanted, everything Dad didn't have the capital to put forward, _all_ of that is at our fingertips in a few years. I could become speaker of the chamber, be put on the small council, in ten years maybe even _be_ prime minister."

"I know," she said, refocusing on him, "I _know,_ I'm so happy for you, Robb, this—this is amazing. You need to contact him right away, get things going as fast as possible, I'll call Mom, and you need to tell Talisa."

"Cersei Lannister is going to break her teeth on this," Robb said, a touch of bitter pride in his voice. Everyone in King's Landing knew Stannis largely tolerated his Lannister in-laws out of a sense of decency, while the Lannister's blithely pretended he didn't exist at all.

"I know, Robb, we did it." Sansa could hardly feel the words on her tongue, could barely feel her feet on the floor.

"Oh, wait, what were you going to say?" he asked, pausing on his way out of the bedroom.

"Nothing," she said, flashing a brilliant smile he might not have fully seen in the dark. She could not tell her brother that she had fallen in love with the wealthiest brothel keeper in the country, not without a bulletproof solution, not when notoriously pious Stannis Baratheon had just approached them on the premise of their good moral standing.

But she could handle this, she could fix it, she and Petyr both.

"It can wait. Come on, we need to tell Talisa the good news."

Robb beamed and clapped her on the shoulder, then spun away to find Talisa in the living room. Her smile was nervous before blooming into radiant when she saw Robb's face.

The next few minutes were a blur of laughter and half-formed sentences and hugs. Sansa tried to lock the dread away and enjoy this moment, enjoy this happiness, but she couldn't stop thinking about how her lover had sabotaged her brother and she had decided that was an acceptable thing to live with, but now that act of sabotage was being viewed as Robb's defining moment, and _sure,_ that would never happen again, but any room that held ruthless, cunning Petyr Baelish definitionally could not hold good and decent and damnably unbending Stannis Baratheon and—

"Thank you, Sansa, for all your help," Talisa said, squeezing her arm. "Robb's lucky to have you. I'm lucky to have you."

"We're not done yet," Sansa said, trying to hedge the optimism, trying to dampen the gratitude in case this whole thing exploded in her face. Talisa just smiled in that good, hopeful way she had, like her world was nothing but sunshine and rose petals and butterfly kisses.

Sansa pivoted, trying to claw her way back to safer ground. "I'll see you at Robb's birthday party, then?"

"Yes, I'll be there." There was a shy excitement in Talisa's eyes, an eagerness to be seen by the world and not have to lie or apologize for it, and Sansa wanted that so _badly_ but now—

"Don't be too excited, you've yet to experience all the crazy the North has to offer," Robb laughed, slipping a hand so casually around her waist. "My whole family will be there, _gods_ , you better be prepared for when Edmure and Lysa get going, then there's all the friends that _think_ they're family and invite themselves along…"

"And they're all coming here to King's Landing?" Talisa asked.

"Mm, yeah, though you won't see Jon and maybe not Arya, if she can't—wait, Sans, where's Arya?"

"Oh, she's with a friend," Sansa said, the lie startled to her lips before she could think about how much of a lie it actually was. It was certainly easier than saying _'I didn't help her like I promised because I ran away to have sex and she's run away to punish me for it._ "I thought we should talk about this in private."

"Right," Robb said, eyes holding the slightest frown, then he shook his head. "I still need to tell her about all of this."

"She's probably going to laugh in your face," Sansa said, pushing a smile onto her lips, because that was something she would have done if she wasn't terrified her world was about to collapse in on itself.

Sansa bid them good night and let them hug her like they had always been on speaking terms and tidied her already tidy house and crawled into her empty bed and reminded herself that chaos was an opportunity. She also reminded herself that there was strength in the pack, and told herself that she was done letting her number shrink.

* * *

Sansa startled awake sixteen minutes after midnight. At first, she was convinced that someone had broken in and was trying to rob her, but then she noticed the living room light and caught a snatch of Arya in the hallway.

"Arya, _what the fuck are you doing?"_ Sansa launched out of bed, not caring about the cold floor or the draft cutting through her silk sleep set.

"Isn't that a little blue for a politician to be yelling across a building?" Arya asked dryly, walking to the front door, throwing it wide, and waving at someone in the driveway.

"What are you— _close the door,_ there could be cameras," Sansa said, cutting across the room to peer out at her driveway.

Arya flicked her a scathing look. "You're a minister's advisor, Sansa, not some shitty teen idol."

Sure enough, the only sign of life outside was a battered old pick up, driven by a man with black hair. She couldn't see him very well through the dark and the windshield, but something about him tugged at her as familiar.

"Who is that?" she demanded, running through her mental catalogue.

"A friend," Arya said, closing the door like that would end the conversation. She was still wearing her sneakers and had tracked mud across the hardwood floor.

"Could you _please_ take off— _did you break in through a window?"_

"I just popped the screen, calm _down_ , _"_ Arya said, walking back to the window she had left wide open. She reached through and grabbed the screen, popping it back into place. She looked like she'd just come back from running errands, with her fashionable athletic gear and hair pulled into a half bun, not like she'd spent the week running wild because she was pissed at her sister. "You didn't leave me a key or anything, and I didn't want to wake you."

"Which is why you turned on every light and stomped through the house, _got_ _it_."

Arya was still light-footed from the dancing lessons Catelyn had made her take as a child. She could sneak through the entire house in Winterfell and never make the floor creak. She'd wanted to make a statement by breaking in after midnight.

"Arya, _where the hell_ have you been?" Sansa demanded. "I came to pick you up, you didn't show, I had no notice, no _idea_ if you were okay other than a _snarky voicemail—_ "

"I'd wondered if that was why you stopped calling," Arya said, barely attempting to hide her smug satisfaction beneath a mild shrug.

" _Arya,_ stop being a _fucking_ smartass and answer me! I was terrified you were dead in a ditch somewhere, you can't just blow me off when you go to _another country—_ "

"Just like you can't blow me off right before I'm supposed to _go_ to another country? Right, yeah, okay, noted. Nice hickey, by the way."

Sansa glanced down at herself in alarm—she hadn't _thought_ Petyr had left any lasting marks, but her sleep camisole was more revealing than her usual—

"I fucking knew it," Arya said, the words flat and unimpressed as a stone hurled from a sling. She grabbed her duffle from where she'd dropped it and shouldered past Sansa. "So, you ditched me because you wanted to get railed by your secret boyfriend, _nice._ "

"That's not—it's not like I _meant_ to forget," Sansa said, nettled because that was just about the only thing Arya had said that wasn't true.

"No, you did it because it's _habit,_ " she shot back, whirling around to face Sansa, wildly and openly angry, now. "Let's just save ourselves about an hour of bullshit and admit that, _yeah,_ you'd be content to cut away everyone in the family if they didn't match your shoes."

"That's a disgusting thing to say to someone," Sansa said, pulling herself together now, voice cold, refusing to give any more ground. She'd been hit by bigger animals than Arya, she could survive this. "I make a mistake _once,_ and suddenly I don't care about my family, _yes,_ that's _exactly_ how the world works."

"Why do you think I don't ask you for things in the first place!" Arya snapped, stabbing the air with her hands. "You _never_ have time for _anyone_ that doesn't immediately benefit you, you _haven't changed._ "

"You're acting like a child _,_ " Sansa said, voice dripping with contempt. "Coming here in the middle of the night so you can wake me up, acting like _you_ know how the world works because you've had time to run around the North and the Vale and Braavos doing who in the hell knows what, while I'm doing a real job with real people instead of doped up, meathead athletes, acting like it's _my fault_ we're not _codependent_. But then, I guess I shouldn't be surprised because you haven't changed, either. So please, continue with your little tantrum, it's about the only thing you know how to do."

"Fine!" Arya laughed, the sound big and manic and full of wrath. "Fuck, fine, yeah, let's do it! I will very childishly go through every fucking little thing you've done that makes you a selfish bitch that likes to lie about everything, because I guess that's what you really want to do right now. Admit it, Sansa, if it's not Mom or Robb, if it's not someone that looks good on a resume, you don't want to deal with them! Same's probably true of your boyfriend, isn't it? Either you adore him, but he doesn't fit your image, or you don't care about him at all, except he's stupidly rich or insanely connected or some other _bullshit_ you people care about here. You _never_ do anything for nothing, not as a kid, not now."

"Right, and _what,_ exactly, is your evidence?"

" _You're fucking doing it already!_ " she screamed at Sansa, hands thrown wide to encompass the world. "Before I came here, when was the last time you called me?"

"It's not like I _memorize_ —"

"Two months. Two months ago, because I called you first. Same with the texts, I have to reach out to you because I don't _fit_ in this pretty little empire you're crafting in King's Landing."

"That's not—"

"What about Bran or Rickon, when did you talk to them last?"

"Earlier this week," she shot back defiantly.

" _Without_ calling Mom first."

"I don't know, a few weeks, they're at school, Robb's needed—"

"And Jon? I'd put money down that you haven't thought about him in _months._ "

"He's at a _monastery,_ Arya, he doesn't have time—"

"I talk to him _every week,_ " Arya snarled at her. "Every fucking week because that's how often he's allowed the phone, and _you_ haven't called him _since he went to the Wall!"_

"Okay, now don't you feel superior," Sansa laughed, shaking her head. "You had time between all your skiing and your shooting and your running and whatever it is you do wherever it is you do it to pick up a phone. Meanwhile, I'm here in King's Landing, kicking back _vipers_ every day, trying to salvage the wreckage that may very well be Robb's career, trying to make a difference that goes _beyond_ some medals and broken records. I'm sorry I'm more concerned about _making a government work_ than calling a man who swore in front of a heart tree to focus more on the needs of the gods than the needs of man."

"Oh, don't take the moral high ground, don't act like _you alone_ are keeping Westeros together," Arya sneered. "If there was another, more glamorous job for you to have, you'd be doing it now, because it's all about how you look, specifically how you look so much better than everyone else. Gods, you'd do _anything_ to get what you wanted. You even managed to make a killing off of Dad's death, making sure to cry all nice and pretty for the camera, teeing Robb up as minister because _Dad_ never let you in the office, but maybe Robb will—"

Sansa snapped her hand out to slap her sister, but Arya, the athlete who had just come back from fight training in Dorne, caught her wrist. She stared at Sansa, eyes big with shock, grip slackening.

"Don't you _ever_ say that," Sansa snarled, wrenching her hand away, shaking with hurt and shame and fury. "Don't you _dare_ act like I think our family is _disposable,_ just because you couldn't give a _shit_ about what Robb and I do down here, don't act like because I'm not tearing my hair out over disappointing you _once_ that I wouldn't _die_ to save any one of you. And don't you ever, _ever_ say to me that I used our father's death as a _press opportunity_ , because I lost him too, Arya! I am doing _everything_ for Robb, I am breaking myself in _half_ to make _anything_ happen in this hellhole of a city without compromising _every_ thought I have, to get _anything_ done without pandering to a horde of weak, _useless_ old men who talk to me like I'm a child, even as they undress me with their eyes, because Dad taught me I could do _anything,_ but I couldn't stop the thing that killed him! So don't you _dare_ —don't you—"

She broke off into messy, hiccupping sobs. The world had never seemed so poisoned and bad as it did in that moment, crushing her beneath the mountain of lies she had to tell to keep the sorrowful truth away. She missed her father, she missed her mother, she missed the person she'd been before everything went wrong, the one with friends and hobbies and a home that was filled with family and happiness instead of somber, streamlined competence.

Sansa stumbled back into the counter, the hard marble propping her up, the cold wood floors grounding her, the tearstained hands hiding Arya from view.

Arya didn't speak for a long moment, waiting for the tears dammed in Sansa's chest to run out.

And they did, after a bit, or at least they lessened. Sansa wiped her face, not so pretty, not so perfect, just a girl breaking down in the middle of the night because someone had finally been honest with her.

There was a glass of water at her elbow, she noticed, and a paper towel, silent offerings Arya had placed on the counter while she was crying. Sansa took them, trying to calm herself down.

"I…didn't know that," Arya muttered, eyes flickering toward the ceiling, suddenly unable to keep Sansa's gaze. "About…I didn't know what it was like, here."

"Yeah, well sometimes it fucking sucks."

Arya was quiet for another moment, then said, "I didn't mean to say…I know you love Dad. I didn't…I shouldn't have made it seem like…"

"My world ended when he died," Sansa said, all iron and ice and blood, because it had been an exceptionally shitty thing to say and she wasn't ready to forgive her sister just yet. "The _only_ way I can survive is by trying to build a new one."

"Right, but …you see what I'm saying though, right?" she asked, suddenly the little girl Sansa had labeled her, wanting so desperately to be believed, not realizing that the unvarnished truth was so much less appealing than her sister's gilded lies.

Sansa wiped her face again. "I don't _think_ you guys are less," she whispered, quietly, fiercely. "I just…everything is so _hard,_ now, I don't…"

She didn't know how to handle her wounded family and her burgeoning career and the inherent injustice of being a woman that men thought they could cut the clothes off of and fixing every catastrophe that landed on her brother's plate and falling in love with a man that she certainly, certainly should not have.

So, of course her family had fallen to the side. They were supposed to always be there, reliable as winter, constant as the Frostfangs, sturdy as a heart tree, no matter what she did or thought or said or kissed. So, of course she had forgotten about her sister. She had done just fine without her, Arya always knew how to land on her feet. Sansa had just never bothered to check if she was also landing on thorns.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Sansa said, "I'm sorry for forgetting about you."

Arya blinked a few times, an uncertain pull to her eyebrows. "I…thanks."

Sansa laughed, a shakier thing than she would have liked. "Don't sound too excited."

"No, it's just—" She folded her arms and looked away, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out like she could expel all the weakness from her body. "That's the first time you've ever apologized to me."

" _What_?" Sansa turned to face her head on. " _No_ , it _isn't_."

Arya gave her another flat look, the hard defenses coming back up. "You used to call me 'Horseface' with your friend Jeyne, even when I was in the room. You pushed me out of the way when I tried to tell Benjen that Dad was gone, because you were certain I would mess it up. I don't get a lot of apologies from you, now or as a kid."

Sansa looked down at her water, shoulders hunching slightly, like that could protect her from the honest cudgel of Arya's words. _Horseface,_ that had been a stupid joke when she'd been a _teenager,_ and just because Jeyne had seen her kissing one of their horses on the nose. And—she hadn't _pushed_ Arya to the side, she had just taken charge of the moment, knowing that Benjen needed a softer delivery than Arya's relentlessly brash manner. She hadn't meant—it hadn't been like _that._

Arya sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Sansa thought she would say something else, push the advantage while she had it, but Arya no longer seemed interested in drawing blood. Not when she'd reduced her strong, steely, impressive older sister to tears.

"I should probably go to bed," she muttered. She shrugged out of her jacket, revealing a racer back tank top and something dark on the inside of her bicep.

"What's that?" Sansa asked, edging closer. Arya looked at her in confusion, then glanced at her arm self-consciously.

"Oh, uhm…I got a tattoo."

"Does Mom know?"

"It's not her arm," Arya said, voice snapping like she was gearing up for another round, just in case.

Sansa raised her hands in defense. "I'm not asking to get you in trouble, gods, I was just curious."

Catelyn had never been especially fond of body alterations, particularly on her children. It had been a long, drawn out process before she was convinced to allow Arya to pierce her ears a second time, and every new set of piercings was received with weary resignation. Arya knew a _tattoo_ would be received with less grace, which was probably why she had made sure to wear three-quarter length sleeves or oversized t-shirts while she'd been around Sansa.

Arya's tattoo was the silhouette of a wolf, lithe and about the length of Sansa's index finger. It was in full sprint, the lines clean and smooth.

"I got it for Dad," Arya murmured, running a finger over the wolf's head.

"Really?" Sansa asked, somehow both touched and afraid at the thought of it, marking her skin forever with such wretched unhappiness.

"It helps," Arya said softly. "It's like he's always here."

Sansa blinked hard, determined not to cry again, because she'd never actually thought there was a way to keep Ned with her without being haunted by the misery of his passing.

"Who—uh, who was that dropping you off?" she asked, because that was a safe enough topic and would not make her want to cry even more.

"A guy I know from the athletic circles that lives down here. He competes in the traditional games, hammer throw, stuff like that."

"That's a long way from the biathlon. What brought you together?"

Arya shrugged, trying very hard to seem casual. "He likes to see the live races. He went to the camp in Dorne, too."

"What's his name? I could have sworn I recognized him from somewhere."

"Who, _Gendry?_ I doubt it, he's from Flea Bottom."

Sansa actually bit her tongue so she wouldn't point out that a Stark couldn't be seen slumming it in _Flea Bottom._ It wouldn't exactly be a good look, after all that talk of valuing people solely for the image they posed.

"Okay. We, uh, we should get to bed," she muttered, taking the cup to the sink so she had something to do. "I…I'm glad you got home safe."

"Right, yeah." Arya lingered for a second, uncertain, then grabbed Sansa into another fierce, breathtaking hug. She didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge the moment after, just let go and walked back to the bedroom.

Sansa watched her go. She hoped very much that they had broken each other's bones not to cause hurt but to allow them to finally grow straight. She just didn't know when they'd allowed themselves to become so crooked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my favorite arc of the story is the exponential usage of the word 'fuck', particularly after I went out of my way to have sansa say it was distasteful
> 
> also I think arya's right, though she said everything in perhaps the worst way possible.


End file.
